


The Prince's Ghost

by latin_cat



Series: Expanded Nolan-verse [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Beyond, DCU Animated
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <i>TDKR</i>, things in Gotham get back to normal and Gordon is getting used to working with a new Batman - until a familiar face is spotted around the city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hereditary Principalities

**Author's Note:**

> The titles for each of the chapters are taken from Niccolò Machiavelli's _The Prince_.

The Batsignal stood out starkly against the heavy grey clouds rolling in over the Gotham River, a cold bite in the air promising snow within the next couple of hours. On top of the MCU building Gordon waited by the new spotlight, his overcoat collar turned up against the winter wind, hands shoved deep in his pockets. A thermos of coffee and two mugs sat on the edge of the parapet next to him. It was a year to the day since Bane’s occupation of Gotham had ended – a year to the day since the Batman had saved them all – and life in the city was more or less back to normal, or whatever it was that passed for normality in Gotham.  
  
To his left he caught a suggestion of movement in the periphery of his vision; a shadow shifting within the shadow of the stairwell. A smile curled at the edges of Gordon’s moustache.  
  
“You’re getting better,” he said aloud. He turned to shut off the light and started unscrewing the thermos. “I didn’t hear you land that time.”  
  
Batman stepped out into the open, crossing over to join Gordon at the edge of the roof.  
  
“Practice makes perfect,” he grunted, taking the offered mug of coffee. Black, with two sugars; he’d never asked Gordon how he knew. “The Hinksy case?”  
  
“Forensics have turned up nothing and we’re still waiting on the ballistics,” Gordon replied, feeling a little twinge of regret at the hint of gratitude betrayed in Batman’s eyes as he sipped at the coffee. The Batman, his Batman, would never have allowed such an unguarded show of emotion. Blake still had a lot to learn if he was going to survive in his new role. “We might have a new lead, though. There was a dealer down on Parkside, Johnny Franks, used to be an informant of Bullock’s when he was in Vice – he was found strangled in a dumpster this morning two blocks from his apartment.”  
  
“Odds are he knew something,” Batman commented. Gordon shrugged.  
  
“Looks that way. I’ve got Bullock and Montoya looking into it.”  
  
They lapsed into a companionable silence, Gordon’s attention settling on the coffee steaming gently between his gloved hands. Following the funeral of Bruce Wayne the commissioner had resumed his nightly vigils on the roof, hoping the familiar setting and the memories associated with the place would help soothe some of the pain of the past year. It had been something of a comfort to discover the new Batsignal up here. He’d supposed the Batman had put it there shortly before he died – a parting gift from an old friend – and Gordon had therefore not expected anyone to answer when he’d started switching it on; so it was with no little surprise and very mixed feelings that he reacted to the almost-familiar cowled figure which had joined him on the roof a month later.  
  
 _“Commissioner.”_  
  
Gordon had known instantly that it was Blake. There were tells – the way he moved, the way he held himself, the set of his mouth and the expression in his eyes – and though the overall impression was convincing, Blake was shorter than Wayne had been by a good five inches, so the armour seemed to sit somewhat awkwardly. Gordon hadn’t said anything, though; he’d just looked the new Batman slowly up and down, finishing by staring him squarely in the eyes. He saw a hint of fear in Batman’s expression, the realisation that Gordon knew, the worry that the older man was going to call him on it – and in that momentary exchange between them those eyes had held a silent plea:  
  
Please, I need to do this. Please.  
  
Gordon had sighed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.  
  
“You need to work on your entrances, son,” he’d said softly. “And the growling’s not obligatory.”  
  
After that it had become a matter of routine. Gordon would switch on the signal every other night, a thermos of coffee resting on the ledge and a manila folder containing the details of their latest case by his side. It soon became known throughout the department that Batman and the commissioner were once again holding regular conferences, but none of the other cops even guessed that the Batman in question was a different one – they all simply assumed that he had somehow escaped the explosion. The Batman could do anything, right?  
  
But Gordon knew different. They had not seen the look in the Batman’s eyes, as he had done, as he’d calmly strapped himself into that craft of his barely a minute before the detonation of the bomb. The Batman was resigning himself to death, and there would be no escape. Gordon had wanted to know then. For years they’d been partners, friends in the war against crime, and he’d never needed to know; now he should at least know the name of the man who had sacrificed everything to save Gotham.  
  
And he had got his answer; Bruce. It had been Bruce Wayne all along.  
  
That night as he’d sat in his old office at the MCU, chaos boiling around him as his surviving men set about the task of re-establishing order in Gotham, Gordon had just felt numb. All the combined agony of his being shot, the murder of Mayor Garcia and the other city officials, the myth of Harvey Dent shattered, the pressure of keeping the resistance going under Bane’s dictatorship, and the last desperate 48 hours; all that was nothing compared to the complete desolation he felt at this final revelation. The worst part was that it had made sense; every last tragic detail of the life of Bruce Wayne, when combined with what he knew of the Batman, made the worst possible sense ever.  
  
“Commissioner?”  
  
Gordon winced, bringing himself out of his reverie, raising his head to meet the question in Batman’s eyes. That was another thing that was wrong too; his Batman had called him ‘Jim’. Gordon shook his head, a self-depreciating smile curling at the corners of his moustache again.  
  
“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking. About Bruce.”  
  
There was no change in Batman’s expression, nothing to betray the discomfort which Gordon knew he must be feeling, which was definitely an improvement. A year on and Blake was shaping up to being a very decent Batman, mentally as well as physically. He’d dropped the growl, thank God, in favour of a deeper version of his normal voice, and Lucius Fox was helping out again on the technical side; the re-appearance of the Bat-plane and a new, improved Tumbler (Jim privately called it the Bat-mobile) proved as much. The armour now fit perfectly too, which meant that either Blake had built up the necessary muscle or Lucius had altered the suit. Gordon suspected it must be a bit of both. Even taking all that into account, Blake had big shoes to fill, and Gordon felt guilty that he could not help making mental comparisons between the two men. It was a daunting enough task for anyone without him keeping score.  
  
“Bruce did what was necessary,” Batman said levelly, after a pause. “He never shied away from that.”  
  
“No,” Gordon said. He shook his head. “No, that he never did. Anything for Gotham. He earnt that damn title of his more than they could ever imagine.”  
  
Batman’s frown deepened.  
  
“More sightings?” he queried.  
  
“Apparently this time picking out Patek-Philippes in Bergduffs,” Gordon said, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice. “When the assistant went to help him he’d gone.”  
  
“It’s becoming endemic,” Batman said, his distaste at the idea clear. Gordon wholly agreed with the sentiment.  
  
It had started shortly after Bruce’s death. Once the basic civil functions were operable again in Gotham it emerged that a significant percentage of the city’s elite resented Bruce Wayne’s funeral having been the simple, strictly private affair that it was; in their opinion the Prince of Gotham had deserved better. Lucius had commented darkly that the Establishment never liked being robbed of a good martyr. A couple of weeks later people began leaving floral tributes at the gates of Wayne Manor; the first simple bunches of flowers taken from gardens or what remained of the beds in Robinson’s Park, more elaborate bouquets arriving as soon as Gotham’s florists had reopened. Lucius and Gordon had taken it upon themselves to read the cards, there being no one else as Alfred had left for Europe some time ago. Most were the usual empty sentimental trash – one spectacular arrangement of black roses, crepe and satin ribbons had claimed to be from ‘The Women of Gotham’ (Gordon had traced the payment for that one back to the account of Veronica Vreeland) – but the most telling had been the first tributes; those torn up from the city’s parks and gardens. Those had been from workers at Wayne Enterprises and their families, from homeless shelters, missions, orphanages, restaurateurs, half-way houses, shop assistants, schools... ordinary Gothamites who had been helped by the Wayne Foundation and held some genuine affection for Bruce Wayne, for all his wastrel ways. Lucius had kept those cards.  
  
It could have been left at that – it should have been – but it turned out the flowers were only the beginning. Five months down the line and the first of the sightings was reported; a janitor at the Gotham Museum of Art and Culture told the _Gazette_ that whilst locking up for the night he had seen Bruce Wayne’s ghost walking down the main staircase, cross the foyer and vanish into thin air. It was an obvious hoax, Gordon himself regarding it as a sick joke, but _Gotham Tonight_ caught hold of the story and from then on there were sightings of ‘The Prince’s Ghost’ every other week; City Hall, the Courthouse, the Gotham Ritz, the S &M clubs of the East End, Wayne Tower, the Monarch Theatre, Arkham – it seemed there wasn’t a place in Gotham the ghost hadn’t been spotted. A TV medium had visited Wayne Manor and conducted a séance live on air, proclaiming that the spirit of Bruce Wayne was restless due to the violent and untimely nature of his death. And then there was a growing minority who thought that Bruce Wayne was not dead, that he escaped Bane’s henchmen and fled to Europe, or Asia, or Africa; a theory given more credence as Bruce had already returned from the dead once before. Sightings of a living Bruce Wayne had to date been reported in as many places as Paris, London, Florence, Naples, Star City, Malibu, New York, Metropolis and, oddly, a small unpronounceable village in Bhutan. Rumour also had it that a publisher was preparing a “Where’s Bruce?” book for release at Christmas; some of the suggested locations were apparently very adult. Gordon’s stomach knotted painfully just thinking about it, as even in death it seemed the media wouldn’t let go of Bruce Wayne. The commissioner scuffed the sole of his shoe against the asphalt in irritation; he didn’t want to think about this anymore.  
  
“This is nice,” he said sharply, raising his eyes to meet Batman’s puzzled gaze at the abrupt change in subject. Jim’s expression softened. “I miss him, I always will, but he never stayed around to talk. I wish he did. This –” He tapped his mug in illustration. “– It’s an improvement.”  
  
“Seems I got that right at least,” Batman quipped dryly. Gordon smiled.  
  
“Just don’t start walking out on me in the middle of conversations and I’ll be happy.”  
  
Batman smirked, and Gordon raised his mug in an ironic salute. His Batman had never smirked.  
  
“To Gotham’s Prince: May he Rest in Peace.”  
  
Batman raised his own mug, replying with simple sincerity.  
  
“To Gotham’s Prince.”  
  
For another half hour they stood gazing out over their city, watching the patchwork of lights twinkling in the darkness as the snow began to fall.  
  
Neither one noticed when another shadow silently detached itself from the shelter of the stairwell behind them, slid over the edge of the parapet and vanished into the night.


	2. Those Who Come to Power by Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s been a bit of a struggle, so I’m hoping it reads ok. (I’m also a beginner at writing US Police Stuff, so if I make any obvious mistakes please do point them out to me for correction.) Again, constructive criticism is very welcome.
> 
> I am also aware that in the comic book canon the 'Crisis' is a specific event, but I've used the word here simply because I needed a name for those five months under Bane. I was getting fed up of writing 'dictatorship' and 'occupation'. And yes, I will be snagging a few characters from other Batman canons here and there, but hopefully in a way that works.

 

At the time of its founding nearly a decade ago the Gotham City Police Major Crimes Unit had consisted of twenty detectives with one hundred and sixty-seven uniformed officers on attachment, placed under the leadership of then Lieutenant James Gordon. The brainchild of the late Commissioner Loeb and Mayor Garcia, the new MCU had been billed as an elite taskforce which would put an end to organised crime in Gotham once and for all. _Some hope_ , Gordon had thought bitterly at the time, but he’d taken the job anyway. For a while it had even worked.  
  
Their first losses had come after the Joker incident – Mike Wuertz killed and Anna Ramirez suspended pending investigation – and Renee Montoya’s promotion from Homicide had brought the numbers back up to nineteen. Next as the Dent Act started to take effect the uniforms had slowly been detailed off elsewhere until only the corps of detectives remained. Finally last summer, with Gotham declared safer than ever and Garcia about to run again for re-election, the talk had been of disbanding Major Crimes altogether – and Gordon had not doubted the next step would be his dismissal from the post of commissioner. There was a reason he’d written that damn speech; better to go publicly by his own choice and screaming the truth about the Batman then to slip away quietly and leave the lie in place. The Crisis had put a stop to that.  
  
When Gordon had been forming the resistance movement he hadn’t needed to go looking for his old team; they had found him, with only three exceptions. Jackson Davies and Nelson Crowe had been trapped underground at the outset, and Renee had been on leave in Barcelona with her partner when things kicked off in Gotham – and had therefore spent the next five months clawing at the walls in frustration whilst she could only watch as the city descended into chaos. (When she’d finally got back to Gotham she had stormed into Jim’s office and landed him a punch on the jaw – “You _bastard!_ You would have to try and get yourself killed when I wasn’t here!” – before hugging him to within an inch of his life.) They’d lost several along the way; Dag Procjnow and Charlie Fields shot, Crispus Allen drowned in the Gotham River, Eric Cohen tortured to death, Marc Driver strung up on a streetlight by a mob from Blackgate, and Vinnie Del Arrazzio so crippled by an explosion he’d never work again. But they’d survived, Gotham had survived; they had taken the beating and they were all the stronger for it.  
  
Now perched on the edge of Montoya’s desk, arms folded, Gordon surveyed the detectives gathered around him in the bullpen. Satisfied that all were present who needed to be, he turned his full attention to Stephens.  
  
“Okay, let’s hear it.”  
  
“Ballistics say the bullet that killed Hinksy was from a .44 Magnum,” Stephens said, handing Gordon the summary from the report he was clutching. “Most likely fired from a Smith  & Wesson 29-5 with a five inch barrel. There were three hundred and twenty-seven 29-5s with five inch barrels registered legally in the city before the Crisis, and since one hundred and thirty-two have been reported missing or stolen. Anyone could have gotten hold of one – hell, even I got one at home under my bed!”  
  
“Reckon we could get a warrant to search Gerry’s place, boss?” Bullock asked slyly. Kasinsky sniggered and Stephens rolled his eyes.  
  
“Funny, Harv. Real funny. The point is there’s too many of the damn things to be worth our time even trying to trace it.”  
  
“Still it’s not the usual weapon of choice for a Gotham Mob hit,” Chandler commented, folding her arms and frowning at the info board behind Gordon. There was depressingly little written up there. “Reckon we could be looking for an amateur?”  
  
Stephens shrugged.  
  
“Amateur, small-timer, or a professional who likes to do it old school... Could be any one of the above.”  
  
“Doesn’t narrow the field much,” Gordon said flatly. He turned to Bullock and Montoya. “Did you two get anything on Johnny Franks?”  
  
Bullock sat up from where he’d slumped in his chair, rubbing one ham-like fist across the back of his neck. Renee shook her head.  
  
“Sorry, boss, bad news there too. Looks like Johnny –”  
  
She stopped short as the door from the hallway opened suddenly and in stepped Blake. Apparently surprised to find he was interrupting a meeting he hesitated on the threshold, undecided as to whether he should go in or if he might step back out into the hallway - but not before Stephens caught sight of him and grinned in recognition.  
  
“Hey, rookie!” he called, waving him in. “Come by to remember what it’s like to actually work for a living?”  
  
Blake shot Stephens a smile, appreciating the friendly jab. He turned to Gordon, apologetic.  
  
“Sorry, sir, Stacy said it would be alright to go on through... Is this a bad time?”  
  
“No, it’s fine, Blake. Take a seat; I’ll be with you in a moment. You were saying, Renee?”  
  
“Should he be listening in on this?” Bullock demanded, a note of open hostility in his voice as he sent a sideways glance at Blake, who had settled next to Burke and Kasinsky. A warm smile tugged at the corners of Gordon’s mouth.  
  
“I think we can trust Blake not to go running to the _Gazette_ , don’t you, Harvey?”  
  
The implied ‘or else’ hung silently in the air, though Bullock continued to glare until Renee jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, surprising a yelp of pain from the other detective. Even though he was no longer a cop Blake was still a familiar face around the MCU in his capacity as executive liaison overseeing the GCPD’s new partnership with Wayne Enterprises’ Technical Division – and as Gordon refused to move out of his pokey broom closet of an office at MCU in favour of the luxurious space that was rightfully his at City Hall, Blake was kept in regular contact with his old friends and colleagues in the police department. Besides which, no matter what small sense of betrayal the other detectives had felt over Blake choosing to resign from the MCU, he had been there during the Crisis when it had mattered the most. These days only Gordon and his three senior detectives were allowed to call Blake ‘rookie’; if anyone else tried Stephens would bounce their head off the nearest available flat surface.  
  
“We asked around everyone we could think of,” Renee continued, pointedly ignoring the hurt glare Bullock directed at here. “But no one’s saying anything about Hinksy or Franks. It proves the deaths are connected alright, but that’s about all we got.”  
  
“Definitely starting to support the theory it’s Mob-based, though,” Bullock chipped in, rubbing his side in an injured manner. “I even asked Loud-mouth Lorna, and I always get somethin’ out of her. Not a peep! Whoever dusted Hinksy and Franks must be seriously bad news; they’ve got the whole city runnin’ scared –” He shoved his massive hands deep into his pockets and slumped back down in his chair. “– An’ I don’t like it. Reminds me of the bad old days, before pointy-ears showed up and Falcone left his sanity in his other pants.”  
  
“Speaking of the bad old days,” Chandler said archly, as a murmur of unease rumbled round the bullpen. “Me and Kasinsky picked up something else interesting along the way. Word on the street is Malone’s back.”  
  
“Malone?” Gordon’s eyebrows inched upwards in surprise. “As in ‘Matches’?”  
  
Chandler nodded gravely.  
  
“One in the badly-dressed same.”  
  
“Who’s Matches Malone?” Blake asked, managing to give the question a ring of only mild curiosity. Judging by the blank expressions on a couple of the younger detectives’ faces he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard of Matches Malone.  
  
“Before your time, kid,” Stephens said, tapping his ballpoint against the edge of his seat. “Malone’s a small-time gang boss; arrived in Gotham from Newark in ’96. Started off as an arsonist for hire, later on specialising in industrial insurance scams and occasionally running crystal meth when business was slow. He dropped off the radar just after the Joker incident; we guessed he followed what was left of Sal Maroni’s crew to Chicago.”  
  
“Wherever he went, it seems he’s decided to reclaim his turf in Gotham,” Kasinsky added. “Our source says he’s been ‘round his old haunts in the Waterfront district, paying visits to old connections and building up his muscle.”  
  
“Screw it,” Davies grumbled. “That’s all we needed!”  
  
“The timing alone’s suspect,” Blake commented thoughtfully. All eyes immediately turned to him, but the ex-detective persisted. “I mean, the gangs are preparing for all out war over who’ll control the Mob, and this Malone just happens to walk in right now?”  
  
In the following silence Stephens narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Blake.  
  
“You sure you don’t work here anymore, kid?” he asked. Blake just grinned.  
  
“You’re kidding, right? I get paid more pushing paper for the Wayne Foundation.”  
  
“Yeah, there’s something seriously not right about that,” Bullock groused as Montoya coughed into her hand and Davies choked back what sounded like a laugh.  
  
“Whatever the reason,” Gordon said, calmly raising his voice a fraction and immediately bringing the room to order. “Malone may have been a small player, but he was respected by the other gangs and had the blessing of both Maroni and Falcone. In the present situation his support may well tip the balance, whoever he sides with.”  
  
Stephens let out a humourless laugh.  
  
“Yeah. Then we gotta hope he doesn’t make up his mind for a while yet.”  
  
“Is he in on this?” Bartlett asked suddenly, having up until that moment sat through the meeting in silence. She did not have to elaborate further on the identity of the ‘he’ in question. Everyone’s attention shifted to Gordon, who was carefully studying the sparse information on the board.  
  
“I’m keeping him informed,” he replied evenly. “Should he come across anything that may be of interest I’ve asked him to let us know.”  
  
“Huh.” Azeveda grunted, possibly best expressing the tangible sense of relief mixed with resentment which filled the room. Deep down each of the detectives knew that sooner or later they’d have to call the Bat in on this, whether they liked it or not. “Whilst you’re about it, boss, tell him to take a refresher course with the boy scouts. One of the goons he left hogtied outside the library last week managed to work free and vamoose before we could get there to pick them up.”  
  
“You timed that well,” Gordon murmured in an undertone as, having set the detectives to their respective assignments, he and Blake retreated into his office. “You ought to tone down your observations, though; you’re not supposed to be interested anymore.”  
  
“They’d suspect more if I stopped,” Blake replied simply as he shut the door behind them. “It’d be like you deciding to retire early and take up rose gardening.”  
  
Seated at his desk, Gordon leant back in his chair and levelled one of his trademark steady gazes at Blake over steepled fingers.  
  
“So what errand has Mr. Fox sent you on this time?” he asked, choosing to ignore Blake’s remark. “Or did you just stop by to irritate Harvey Bullock with the size of your paycheque?”  
  
Blake wordlessly reached into the inside jacket pocket of his new suit and produced an envelope. It was of a heavy cream-coloured paper with the emblem of the Wayne Foundation embossed in gold on the back, quite unlike the stationery the Foundation used in its day-to-day correspondence. Gordon eyed it as if it might bite him.  
  
“Couldn’t he have just sent it by courier?” he asked weakly.  
  
“Mr. Fox thought that the Commissioner of Police merited a hand delivery,” Blake said, relentlessly holding out the envelope. It was clear he wasn’t going to move until Gordon accepted it.  
  
“Did he now,” Gordon said blandly.  
  
“He also said that this way you couldn’t claim it got lost in the post.”  
  
Gordon mentally cursed Lucius Fox for the devious bastard he was, and idly wondered if he could raise enough capital to buy Blake off. Maybe if he auctioned off one of his kidneys...  
  
“You know I don’t need to be there,” he said instead, changing his tack from ‘pleading’ to ‘annoyed’. “And I don’t have the sort of money they’re looking for. Why they keep on inviting me to these things escapes me completely!”  
  
“For the same reason you get invited to every other civic function in Gotham,” Blake said mildly, only just managing to keep the edge of impatience from his voice. “Besides, Mr. Fox also told me to say he’d consider it a personal favour if you would be able to make it this year, as the fundraiser is being held at the Thomas and Martha Wayne Orphanage. I know he’d want you to be there. So would I.”  
  
A fresh set of alarm bells sounded in Gordon’s head at this new information.  
  
“He’s not going to ask me to make a speech, is he?”  
  
“No danger. Mr. Fox was very clear that he would be giving the speeches this year, and I’ve seen Jessica writing them.”  
  
Gordon scrutinised Blake carefully, but it was clear the younger man was being sincere. He sighed, taking the envelope from Blake’s hand. He knew when he was beaten.  
  
“I suppose I’d better dig out my tux,” he murmured with gloomy resignation. Blake smiled, triumphant.  
  
“You never know, sir,” he said brightly. “You might enjoy it this year.”  
  
“I doubt that,” Gordon said bleakly. Blake however was still smiling, and all of a sudden Jim saw Bruce Wayne standing before him nine years ago, beautiful and expensive; beaming at him with that vacant playboy smile, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bespoke Armani suit. _Come on, Jim, it’ll be fun! You won’t have to stay long, and I promise I’ll have you in bed before midnight... though I can’t make any guarantees it’ll be your bed._ His chest contracted painfully with some unidentifiable emotion, catching him off guard, and in a fit of uncharacteristic petulance Gordon wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off Blake’s face.  
  
“What are you looking so damn happy about?" he snapped bitterly, glaring at the younger man over the top of his glasses. "Seems as if you’ve got some brushing up to do on your knot-tying technique. I take it you were never in the boy scouts.”  
  
“Neither was Bruce,” Blake countered, yet he’d stopped smiling and had the decency to look embarrassed. Success. “I was worried about cutting off the circulation.”  
  
“Don’t be,” Gordon said caustically, opening the envelope with his thumb and pulling out the gilt-edged invitation for inspection. “We always get to them long before there’s any danger of that, and even if you did I’d like to see anyone try and complain. You’re not there to be nice.”  
  
 _His_ Batman would have rather had their hands drop off than ever let a crook get away.  
  
\-------  
  
When Lucius had offered Blake the job of estate manager at the Wayne Orphanage he had explained that the position came with a fully-furnished apartment in the south-east corner of the manor, complete with its own private elevator. For a time Blake wondered why a three room apartment on the ground floor would need an elevator – or a grand piano at that – until Lucius had demonstrated, along with his singularly poor piano playing skills, that it was not an elevator that went up, but _down_. After that Blake fully appreciated that a private elevator was in fact a definite advantage. He might even grow to like the piano.  
  
Even so, his position in the Wayne Foundation wasn’t enough justification to give him unlimited access to the offices of Wayne Enterprises; a problem which was conveniently solved when Lucius had decided that in order to deal with his ever-increasing workload he was in need of a second PA. This had somewhat ruffled the feathers of Jessica, Lucius’ present PA, until she saw that apart from his involvement in the GCPD partnership Blake’s job was in fact little more than that of a glorified office boy. This had gone some way to settling an uneasy truce between the two; however Blake suspected that Jessica would not be so happy if she knew that, unlike hers, his security clearance was ‘Access All Areas’ – on any door, on any safe, at any WE facility anywhere in the world.  
  
He now gave her his customary polite smile as he passed her desk on the way into Lucius’ office, which she returned with an equal lack of enthusiasm. Strangely enough she’d been the first one in the office to comment on the fact he’d been ‘working out’.  
  
“Back so soon, Mr. Blake?” Lucius observed, rising from his desk as Blake wandered in. “I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have thought the commissioner would capitulate so easily.”  
  
“I may have twisted his arm a little,” Blake commented. Then added hastily; “Metaphorically, of course.”  
  
Amusement crinkled at the corners of Lucius’ eyes. “I never assumed for a moment you meant in any other fashion, Mr. Blake.”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“So how are things with Gotham’s Finest?”  
  
“Busy, but what else is new?” Blake unconsciously shoved his hands in his pockets, earning him a briefly despairing look from Lucius. “The partnership project is gathering support at City Hall, and Dr. Jacobs reports the work is progressing as scheduled for the new pathology lab. They should be able to start moving in the equipment on Monday.”  
  
“All good news, Mr. Blake, all good news..." Lucius went quiet, an expression of discomfort creasing his brow, and Blake realised that it had been a long while since he had last seen Lucius look so genuinely troubled. This did not bode well for whatever news was to come. "It’s a pity that this first project may well be our last in association with the GCPD.”  
  
Blake’s posture stiffened, his gaze immediately becoming severe.  
  
“What do you mean? Wayne Enterprises is committed to this programme for a minimum of five years.”  
  
“Under the present management,” Lucius said. “But we’ve got a problem of our own developing in that department. Powers is moving in for another takeover bid.”  
  
“Again?" Blake's frown deepened. "I thought you saw him off.”  
  
“So we did - that time. As you may recall, however, Powers was quoted in the press as regarding it as nothing more than a ‘temporary setback’.”  
  
Derek Powers had been Vice President of Operations at Daggett Industries and had succeeded Roland Daggett as owner of the company after the end of the Crisis. Though Blake had never actually met the man he’d heard plenty about him lately in the local media, and what he’d heard he didn’t like. Already at the age of twenty-five Powers had amassed himself a sizable personal fortune, and now at the age of twenty-six he was looking to expand his corporate empire with Wayne Enterprises firmly in his sights. Though Powers’ succession had been legitimate, despite being disgustingly young for the position, Blake had found it too much of a happy coincidence for Powers to find himself out of Gotham at the time of the Crisis, returning five months later to seamlessly take over the business when Daggett's association with Bane had cost him and his other lieutenants their lives. Either Powers was an exceptionally gifted businessman, unspeakably lucky, or he’d known in advance what was going to go down and had planned accordingly – and Blake’s gut feeling was firmly inclined towards the latter.  
  
“Did he get any of Bruce’s and Miranda’s shares?” he asked. Lucius shook his head.  
  
“Fortunately they were snapped up by various small business, charitable trusts and private individuals before Powers could get his hands on any of them; but it means he remains the second to largest individual shareholder in the company.”  
  
“Who’s the first?”  
  
Fox furnished the younger man with an arch expression.  
  
“Do you really need to ask, Mr. Blake?”  
  
“I guess not.”  
  
“Still, thanks to the swift sale of Mr. Wayne and Ms. Tate’s shares, Powers doesn’t have anything like the overwhelming majority he was planning on obtaining.” Lucius moved over to his bookcases, pressing the button which slid back the shelves concealing his private elevator. “I suppose we must be grateful for small mercies. I’m trying to persuade Douglas Fredericks to step up and take control; he may not command the majority but he’s well respected with solid business principles, as well as moral ones. But with Mr. Wayne out of the way Powers will be playing the youth card – the ‘bright future of the company’ and all that - which neither Douglas nor I have any hope of countering. Not to mention that Powers’ previous attempt was made only a few days after Mr. Wayne’s funeral, so we were also able to argue that the timing was inappropriate. However there’s plenty on the Board, let alone in the corporate world in general, who would like nothing better than to sever all ties with Bruce Wayne’s tenure as President of Wayne Enterprises.”  
  
“Could you take on the position?”  
  
Lucius shook his head once more, stepping into the elevator as the doors opened.  
  
“After Mr. Wayne fired Bill Earle the company’s constitution was re-written so that the positions of CEO and President of the Board could never be held by the same person - as a safeguard should anything happen to either myself or Mr. Wayne, you understand. Unfortunately neither of us anticipated not having a counter-strategy against the likes of Derek Powers.”  
  
“Isn’t there also something in the constitution stating that the President of the Board cannot also be the owner of another company?” Blake asked, falling in beside his employer.  
  
“You’re quite right, Mr. Blake, and that’s how we would have blocked Daggett had we not had Miranda Tate as a candidate to take control of the Board; but Derek Powers isn’t just after a simple takeover this time. He’s proposed a corporate merger, under which Wayne Enterprises and Daggett Industries would become Wayne-Powers Technologies.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Quite.” Lucius pressed his thumb to the touch pad on the control panel, which lit up with the words ‘Access Granted’. The steel doors slid smoothly shut and the elevator began to descend. “I’ve got Legal working on it night and day, but we’re running out of options fast.”  
  
“What would happen if Powers did get hold of the company?” Blake asked. It would be best to be prepared for the worst.  
  
“Oh the company’s profits would increase, undoubtedly, but under Powers the partnership programme with the GCPD would be neglected and the Wayne Foundation would most likely fold. Also the R &D budget for engineering would be cut in half and redirected to the development of arms and pharmaceuticals – which besides being directly contradictory to Mr. Wayne’s last wishes would also make it very difficult for you to continue pursuing your extra curricula activities. I have it on good authority that Mr. Powers is not a fan of spelunking.”  
  
“How about base-jumping?” Blake asked without any real conviction.  
  
“Entirely uninterested. He’s not particularly keen on polo either.”  
  
The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open, the two men stepping out into Lucius’ underground domain; rebuilt and reinforced this time to withstand a large nuclear blast - from above or beneath.  
  
“In truth I’m more worried about Powers’ general method of business practice,” Lucius continued, leading the way over to his workbench. “There have been many, myself included, who have long suspected that some of Daggett’s operations contained a criminal element, though no one’s ever been able to prove it. However, should Daggett have been guilty of anything untoward it’s an almost given that Powers would have had a hand in it – and I doubt the last thing Mr. Wayne would have wanted was his company being run by a criminal.”  
  
“Do you want me to find out if there’s any hard evidence against Powers and then discredit him?”  
  
Lucius paused in the action of sitting down, his expression becoming carefully blank.  
  
“It would be an abuse of my position to ask you to use your... _community work_ to benefit private enterprise, Mr. Blake,” he said firmly. He sat down, tilting his head to one side as if further considering the matter. “However, should you think it in the wider interest of Gotham, then I hope you wouldn’t be opposed to delivering any information which may come to light to the relevant authorities.”  
  
Blake nodded his understanding.  
  
“I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“Much obliged, Mr. Blake,” Lucius said mildly. He clasped his hands on the desk, leaning forward and the tone of the conversation instantly lightened. “Now, is there anything I can do for you today?”  
  
“As a matter of fact,” Blake said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I was wondering if you had anything that would help counteract the effects of pepper spray.”  
  
“Pepper spray?” Lucius echoed.  
  
“Or mace. Any sort of aerosol irritant to the face.”  
  
The older man’s eyebrows inched upwards in question.  
  
“Somebody get the wrong impression of a Friday night?” he asked lightly.  
  
“Let’s just say some girls don’t know how to say thank you after you stop a mugging,” Blake muttered darkly, unable to suppress a grimace of remembered pain. Lucius’ face broke into a broad grin.  
  
“Reckon I could come up with something, Mr. Blake.”  
  
\-------  
  
It was gone six thirty in the evening when Blake finally made it back to the manor. Rush hour in Gotham was one of the few times he regretted no longer being a cop; no more switching on the lights and siren to make a quick run home. Not that he and his partner ever did that. Much. He’d run off his frustration in the Tumbler later tonight. He wouldn’t have time to cook himself a proper dinner before going out on patrol; he would have to grab something from the kitchens and maybe fix himself an omelette when he got back – if he felt like eating at all by that point. When he’d begun his life as Batman Blake had gone to the trouble of consulting with one of Gotham’s top nutritionists to have a diet sheet drawn up for him, but in reality he found that he was increasingly living off tinned soup and omelettes, and it was at such times he seriously envied Bruce having had Alfred. Even if Bruce had possessed the ability to cook for himself, the Batman lifestyle alone wouldn’t have given him much of an opportunity to do so.  
  
Turning off the road Blake swung his car in through the ornate gateway and began winding his way up the front drive to the house itself. Being winter it was already dark, and the sight of the manor lit up like a Christmas tree on its outcrop in the snowbound landscape made for an impressive scene. Blake made a mental note to take some photos to make up into Christmas cards for the Foundation to retail next year.  
  
Before, when Bruce had been living alone at the manor, Blake had felt that there was an innate sadness in the very stones of the place; but it hadn’t been until the orphanage had moved in that he had realised why. Bruce had not lived in the house but the cave below, using the manor as a convenient charade the same way as he did his public identity. Blake sometimes thought that in a sense Bruce Wayne had become a ghost long before he died; a hollow man existing in an empty house, trapped by past grief and unable to move on. As soon as the children had moved in the sadness had lifted and the manor had once again become a home, not just a house.  
  
St. Swithun’s had spent its limited resources on housing Gotham's at risk boys, but the Wayne Orphanage was large enough and well-enough funded that this fall would see its first intake of girls. All in all Blake enjoyed working and living at the manor. During the day he fulfilled his role as estate manager (and general handyman when needed), but he also got to spend time with the boys; playing football with them, listening if they had problems, offering advice as someone who had ‘been there’, and telling them stories about the Batman – and the boys liked it here at the manor too. Blake only hoped that the threat of Derek Powers would not put an end to the enterprise before it had even begun.  
  
Taking the car around the side of the house to the garages, Blake automatically cast a glance across the open expanse of the west lawn. Here and there the odd sequoias and cedars stood out in glorious isolation, but as ever Blake’s eye was drawn to the ancient yew just off to one side of the gravel path, under which he could just make out the small collection of gravestones standing in stark contrast to the newly-fallen snow. Normally he would not spare the Wayne family plot more than a passing glance, not caring to think too much about the latest and last addition to the grim collection, but tonight Blake spotted something unusual amongst the stones and he stood on the breaks, the car crunching to a halt on the loose gravel. It had just begun to snow again, so pulling up the collar of his overcoat Blake got out of the car to have a better look, squinting into the darkness and trying to make out definite shapes against the shadows under the yew and the blurred backdrop of the falling snow. Two years experience of night patrol on the streets of Gotham meant that his night vision was pretty good, and he was able to quickly confirm that at first glance he had not been mistaken; there was definitely a figure standing amongst the gravestones.  
  
Blake however was not at all surprised, only irritated. It had become something of a problem of late, as since _Gotham Tonight_ had started reporting sightings of the Prince’s Ghost the boys, as boys would do, had been daring each other to spend the night next to Bruce Wayne’s grave. Blake now made a point of keeping the gate locked, yet even so in the past month alone he’d had shoo no less than five boys out of there; and those were just the ones he’d caught. He had to admire this one’s determination for attempting to brave the challenge in the snow, for all it was a potentially suicidal attempt.  
  
“Okay, c’mon!” Blake called wearily. He switched off his car engine, slammed the door shut and started walking down the slope towards the graveyard, fishing in his pocket for the key to the gate. Yet another delay to his setting out on patrol... “You know you boys aren’t allowed in there. You’re not supposed to be out after dark either!”  
  
He could see the boy clearly now. He was quite tall and skinny, with a hunched-over posture; one of the home's eldest boys then, which was odd as usually the elder boys knew better than to pay any mind to something like this. He was wearing an over-sized dark grey hoodie and baseball cap, faded black jeans and a fairly solid pair of black boots; hood up and the cap peak shading his face. It was a miracle that Blake had seen him at all in this light.  
  
“Is that you, Sean? Jason? Look, you’re not in trouble; not with me, anyway. Let’s get you back to the house and warmed up. We’ll say no more about it ‘til tomorrow, deal?”  
  
But the boy only hunched over further, shoving his hands deeper into the hoodie pockets and turning his face away. Now he was closer Blake could see that it wasn’t Jason or Sean, or Ben for that matter; all of them were shorter, and it was with a sense of shock that Blake realised that if this kid straightened up he’d be taller than him by a good few inches. He didn’t know this boy at all, and there were no new arrivals due anytime soon - which then begged the question of was this a boy at all? Blake narrowed his eyes, his fist automatically wrapping around his car keys. Having been a beat cop in Gotham he was not opposed to fighting dirty when necessary, especially as there was a possibility that the hoodie might be here to hurt the boys in some way, or a thief come to see if there was any family silver left to be had – or maybe he was just some homeless guy looking for somewhere to spend the night.  
  
“You're new here, aren’t you?” Blake asked, keeping the same level tone he’d been using moments earlier. He could take the guy if he needed to, but that was no reason to be incautious. He might still be able to get him to leave quietly. “Don’t think we’ve met. What’s your name? I’m guessing you don’t know where –”  
  
Blake didn’t get the chance to find out though, as all of a sudden the hoodie turned and ran, impossibly quick, vaulted over the railings in one fluid movement and took off across the lawn. For a second or two Blake stood stunned, unable to move, staring after the retreating figure. The way he moved (Blake was certain it was a man), the agility, the execution of that vault – he’d seen it all before. There was only one person he knew in the world could move that way.  
  
“Hey!” he shouted, pocketing his keys and running after the hoodie. “Hey, wait!”  
  
The guy had a good head start and Blake was struggling to make any decent headway wearing his work shoes – Leather soles! Fucking leather soles in _snow_ , Goddamnit! – but he could see that the hoodie had run into the walled garden, at which Blake felt a spark of triumph. Only one way in, and only one way out! Kicking off his shoes with a snarl, Blake ran on in his socks.  
  
Yet when he reached the doorway into the garden Blake was in for another surprise; there was no sign of the hoodie. Three paces onto the pathway and the tracks just ended in unblemished snow. The man had vanished completely.  
  
Blake searched the entirety of the garden, but there was no sign of his hooded intruder. There was nothing in here save the two glasshouses (empty), the old boarded-up well (useless), and the walls were fourteen feet high; near impossible to scale even with a good run-up. No tracks in the snow on the paths or the barren vegetable beds either, and no overhanging tree he could have climbed up and over the walls, nor any shrubs for him to hide in. No way out save the way he had come in... and yet he had vanished.  
  
Numb from the cold and dismayed at his failure to catch his quarry, Blake picked up his shoes and trudged back up the slope towards the house, doing his best to ignore the freezing wet sensation he was now starting to feel surrounding his feet. When he got to the graveyard he fumbled for the key, the iron gate opening with a loud squeak, and stumped over to the headstones of the last three members of the Wayne family. Already the new-fallen snow was beginning to cover up his tracks, but crouching down Blake could still make out two definite indentations at the foot of Thomas Wayne’s grave where the man had clearly been standing for some time – about a size ten or eleven, narrow fitting, rubber sole with deep treads in a chequered pattern which must have given him good purchase as he ran.  
  
He might be wrong, but Blake was fairly certain that ghosts weren’t supposed to leave footprints.


	3. The Things for Which Men, and Especially Princes, are Praised or Blamed

Nearly eight hours after Blake had chased his interloper from the grounds of Wayne Manor, across the city in the old naval district of South Hinkley Gordon let himself into his apartment. Ten minutes later he was out on the fire escape; both hands cupped around a cigarette and his lighter, a mug of strong black coffee balanced on the rail next to him.

Closing his eyes for a moment he inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into his lungs, already beginning to feel it take the edge off his raw nerves. He’d quit years ago when Barbara first became pregnant with Jimmy and he had since stayed largely clean; but every once in a while something bad would come along on a case that would bring back the craving so hard it was like he was trying to quit all over again. On nights such as those Gordon felt he could be forgiven for lighting up, and tonight had been bad.

In Gotham ‘bad’ could take many forms. A flood of petty crime could be bad; too much going on with their forces spread too thinly, which was what Gordon called the ordinary sort of bad. A step up from that was the more unusual, such as the Joker incident and the Crisis; the former of which had been bad – nerve-shatteringly so – and the latter very bad indeed. Tonight was yet again a different sort of bad, but bad nonetheless; they’d found the body of Anna Sanchez, Johnny Franks’ girlfriend, dismembered and dumped round the back of a Thai restaurant four blocks away from where Franks had been left the night before. They were yet to conduct a detailed post mortem, but the initial examination showed indications of her having been alive – and conscious – as she was dismembered. One of the rookie patrolmen on the scene had vomited noisily into the gutter when they’d uncovered the head, and even now the memory of the expression on her face made Gordon give an involuntary shudder which had nothing to do with the cold. Sometimes he’d thought he’d seen it all, seen the worst Gotham could throw at them, then something like this would come along and he would be sharply reminded that there would always, always be something or somebody worse.

Leaning on the edge of the fire escape Gordon exhaled with a heavy sigh, watching the smoke curl away thick and white in the bitterly cold air. From where he was now he could see through the gaps in the alleyways across to Tricorner where the colossal Statue of Justice stood looking blindly out into the Bay, illuminated brightly against the dark cityscape. Post-Crisis the district of South Hinkley had undergone a ‘gentrification’ – at least that was what the developers and real estate brochures had called it – though thankfully it had gotten off quite lightly compared to Granton or the Sheal Docklands, which were a lot closer to Uptown. Friends and colleagues, particularly those at City Hall, kept on insisting that Gordon’s position as commissioner meant he could easily afford something better in Midtown or Endsbury, even after deducting maintenance from his salary; but Gordon resented the principle of moving simply for the sake of appearances. Besides, he liked Hinkley; it was here that he and Barbara had first set up house together as newlyweds, back in the days when it had been a cheap but semi-respectable neighbourhood. That house was long-gone now, and their last in West Harlow sold shortly after the divorce seven years ago, as living alone meant that he could afford to downsize – which was how Gordon had found himself back where he’d started in Gotham over two decades ago. The apartment had met his few requirements perfectly; it was in reasonable repair, not too modern in design, in a fairly quiet neighbourhood – and most importantly it was located on the first floor; not too high up as to be an exhausting climb after coming off shift, and not too far to drop from the fire escape should a hasty exit be required without using the front door. Anyone chasing him would lose valuable minutes getting back down to street level again.

Thinking about it, it was probably not a good sign that he had chosen a place to live with the thought of thwarting potential assassination attempts in mind, but Gordon reasoned that he would rather be paranoid and alive than careless and dead. Still, paranoid or not, the view if nothing else was an improvement from his last house. Lady Gotham, as she was more commonly known, had been commissioned during the tenure of Judge Solomon Wayne (Another damn Wayne. Was there any point in Gotham’s history that didn’t involve a Wayne?) and predated the Statue of Liberty by a good twenty years. Gordon didn’t know much history, but it was impossible to be a cop in Gotham and not know about Solomon Wayne; as the founder of the city’s first police force every cadet got the potted lecture on his or her first day at the Academy. Gordon liked Lady Gotham. Unlike most depictions of Justice she held her sword not simply as a decorative warning, but drawn back and ready to strike, and as such the commissioner had always felt that she summed up the character of the city perfectly; elegant, uncompromising and deadly. He sometimes wondered if those had been the sentiments old Solomon had dictated to the sculptor when commissioning the statue; and even if they weren't, they had certainly been embodied in his descendent.

And he was back to thinking about Bruce, wasn’t he?

Gordon took another drag from his cigarette. The night before Bruce’s funeral he, Lucius, Alfred and Blake had gathered for an impromptu wake in the manor’s kitchen where they had all, as Alfred quite eloquently put it, gotten ‘thoroughly disgraceful’. They had talked well into the early hours of the morning, each of them sharing stories about whichever facet of the man they had known, their shared experiences finally piecing together the real Bruce Wayne who in life had hidden so well behind the twin masks of Batman and Brucie. Gordon and Blake had sat listening slack-jawed as Alfred and Lucius talked about Bruce’s seven year absence after Joe Chill’s murder, his training with the League of Shadows, why he chose the Bat, the adoption of the playboy persona, Fox’s supposed coup of Wayne Enterprises, the seizure of Lau from his stronghold in Hong Kong, Rachel Dawes’ death – even the real reasons behind the burning down of Wayne Manor and the crash of the Lamborghini during the Joker incident. Blake in turn had spoken of Bruce’s last few days before his capture by Bane, and then Gordon had told them about the Batman; how on their first meeting he’d been held up by his own stapler, the instinctive bond of trust forged between them during the Narrows business, those meetings on his back porch and the roof of the MCU, how he had found a kindred spirit in his dark, silent friend... and how no one, not even he, had guessed that Gotham’s Dark Knight was in truth also its Prince.

Yet that night, miraculously retaining some shred of better judgement through the haze of drink, Gordon had not spoken of the sense of betrayal he had felt during those eight years of silence. Nothing. For eight years, nothing. All that time wondering where the Batman had gone, if he was even still alive; and then in the hospital he had woken to the feel of a warm, callused hand grasping his and a voice, deep and gentle, whispering his name. Though exhausted and half-blind without his glasses, Gordon had known instinctively it was his old friend.

_We were in this together, and then you were gone._

Gordon sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. He seemed to be thinking a lot about Bruce lately. A year on from that night and things had steadily been improving; they’d rounded up all but a few of the escapees from Blackgate, the repairs to the city’s infrastructure were nearly complete, funds were flooding into the police department, Blake was going from strength to strength in his training... So why, when things were going so well, did Gordon know that now more than ever he would trade it all in a heartbeat if it meant he could bring Bruce back?

Picking up his mug he glanced at his watch. 2:37 am. He should go to bed, try and get some sleep before heading back to the MCU for the start of First Shift at 8:30, not be standing out here in the snow drinking more coffee. But in truth there was not much point in trying; he slept very little these days, usually surviving on a few hours each night – what sleep he did get irregular and never restful – and somewhere along the line he had fallen out of the habit of dreaming. Yet on the nights when Gordon was truly drained, typically after a particularly vicious killing or weeks of pushing himself on an unusually complex case, he would close his eyes and be haunted by images of dark streets hungry for blood, laughing men with chalk-white faces, the sharp crack of gunfire and sirens shattering the night; and the burning, vengeful eyes of a monstrous bat-winged creature spawned from the shadows itself. All in all, Gordon was grateful he hardly ever dreamed anymore.

In the past eight years the nightmare had changed to reflect the reality; the dark streets were still hungry but empty, and the nightmare scenario was now not the bat-creature itself, but the fact that it was no longer there. Years before when he had woken from his nightmares he’d always found Barbara holding him, whispering soothing nonsense to him in a weary, long-suffering manner; these days he slept alone, and with no one for him to come home to he was spending more and more time at the office. There was hardly any reason for him to, except to sleep or find a change of clothes; all the people he cared about were either at work, the other side of the country or… not here.

Gone. Not here. Why couldn’t he bring himself to use the word ‘dead’?

Thinking back to the time before the Joker incident, Gordon recalled those nights when the Batman would meet him not on the roof of the MCU, but out on the back porch of his house. They had still hardly exchanged more than a few sentences and never talked anything but shop, but during those eight years of silence Gordon had come to cling to the memory of those nights as something far more intimate - and there was his other reason for moving back to Hinkley, as it was amongst the trash cans not three blocks from here that the Batman had let Gordon see him for the first time. He’d picked out this apartment with its suitably secluded fire escape in the belief that he might once again receive a night time visitor, even though at the time the prospect had been becoming increasingly remote, and it was not often Gordon would allow himself to admit that he had dared to hope.

It had often been on a night like this, when things were bad, that the Batman had come to him. He’d always disapprove when he found Gordon smoking – muttering something about heart attacks and the inside of his lungs, that he had kids and he should know better – before going on to discuss the case in question. A night just like this. In his head Gordon could practically hear the disapproving growl rumbling out of the shadows. He would smile humourlessly, turn and find– But no, Bruce wasn’t there, and he never would be again. His Batman was gone, gone for good... and yet Jim could not understand why he was finding it so hard to remember that.

He looked down at the cigarette clutched between his fingers, of which he’d only smoked half, and it suddenly occurred to him that though he had always rebuked him for it, the Batman had never once stopped him from lighting up. Feeling a pang of guilt Gordon stubbed out what was left on the wall behind him, throwing the end into the trash, picked up his coffee and headed back inside.

That night he dreamed of the soft rustle of black silk against the window pane, and a pair of bright hazel eyes burning not with vengeance, but regret.

\-------

Sometimes Bullock’s background in Vice had the habit of resurfacing at the worst moments, and as a result there were some conversations that took place in Major Crimes which Gordon promptly wished he had never walked into. Today was no exception.

“– really not interested, Harvey!” Chandler scolded as Jim stepped into the bullpen from the hallway, a copy of the morning’s _Gotham Times_ in one hand and an americano in the other. Bullock shrugged, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Sure, I get it,” he said. "But there’s no denying the Bat-Freak’s a masochist. It’s his kink.”

There was a beat of silence in which Gordon just knew that everyone in the room, himself included, was visualising the Batman tied up in various compromising positions and getting off on whips and chains. His suspicion was confirmed when each of the detectives gave a near simultaneous shudder of revulsion.

“I hate you, Bullock!” Renee whined, rubbing her forehead in an attempt to erase the image from her mind. Bullock smiled at her sweetly.

“Nah, you love me really, Montoya.”

“Boss?” Someone waved a hand in front of Gordon’s face. It was Davies. “Boss, you ok?”

“Sorry, what?” Gordon was brought back to the present, feeling more than a little stunned. Unlike the other detectives the mention of the Batman had immediately connected itself with Bruce in Gordon’s head, and had become a vision of Bruce Wayne - cuffed, naked and vulnerable - tied to a bed in a very compromising position indeed. Davies meanwhile scowled at Bullock.

“You idiot, Harvey, you’ve scarred him for life!”

“Sorry, boss.” Bullock looked suitably contrite now he was aware of the commissioner’s presence. “Didn’t see you come in.”

“Next time remind me to knock,” Gordon murmured, playing up apparent shell-shock, though he couldn’t deny that he’d found the image appealing; which immediately begged the question of since when had he found the prospect of fucking Bruce Wayne attractive? Bullock let out a bark of laughter, but Davis however still looked worried.

“Sure you’ll be ok, boss?” he asked, taking Jim by the shoulders and looking searchingly at his face, his brow creased with such genuine concern it had to be fake. “Do you need to sit down? I can get the trauma team here in two minutes. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three and a half,” Gordon said flatly, dropping all pretence at trauma. “Get out of the road, Davies.”

Davis grinned broadly, stepping to one side and holding up his hands placatingly.

“Okay, okay! But don’t blame me if you go into shock when no one’s watching.”

Gordon slammed his office door shut on him, depositing the coffee and paper with its headline ‘Dealer’s Girlfriend Found Dismembered In Dumpster’ emblazoned across the front page on his hopelessly cluttered desk, peeling off his snow-damp coat and crossing to the window where he leant his forehead against the cool glass. God, he needed to sleep! On the other hand, as last night had been bad enough without dreaming of the Batman (or, more accurately, the lack of a Batman) maybe the answer was not sleep; though Christ knew what it might be instead. He sighed as the intercom buzzed, and turning away from the window Gordon dug the office phone out from under the paperwork, pressing the button to pick up.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Mike Engel from GCN’s here for that interview you scheduled.”

Gordon resisted the urge to swear. It seemed that there would be no respite this morning; but after the events of last night it was not like he had expected one. Engel had been on at him for weeks for an interview about his part in the Crisis and the city’s reconstruction to form part of a series of programs marking the anniversary of Gotham’s liberation. When Gordon had refused Engel had simply gone over his head to the mayor’s office, who had insisted that the commissioner toe the line. A pity, as Gordon had been able to forget about it for a while - and the press conference he would be giving in two hours' time about Anna Sanchez.

“Send him on in,” he said, then sat down at his desk and steeled himself for the worst. Approximately two seconds later there was a knock at the door and Mike Engel stepped into the room, dressed neatly in one of his trademark pale grey suits – but, surprisingly, no one else followed the newscaster in.

“Mr. Engel,” Gordon said, rising to shake his hand, indicating that he should pull up a chair. “Take a seat.”

“Commissioner,” Engel said, smiling thinly as he sat down. “Thank you to agreeing to see me at short notice, as I know you don’t ordinary like giving interviews. Mayor Andreas has explained the programme concept to you?”

“She has,” Gordon said neutrally, leaning back in his chair. Every journalist in Gotham and half of the Eastern Seaboard knew just how much he hated interviews. “Is your film crew on the way up?”

“This is more of a preliminary," Engel said smoothly. "Where we can discuss the material for the interview and how exactly we’re going to incorporate it.”

“I see.” But Gordon didn’t see. Though the commissioner usually shunned the media, he had done enough interviews and TV spots to know how it worked; and what Engel had described was not GCN’s way of operating at all. It cost time and money to send reporters and camera crew out of the studio, so why was Engel wasting time by coming here alone?

“You see, commissioner,” Engel continued, taking out his ballpoint and opening his notepad to a fresh page. “We are putting together a special report documenting the actions of the GCPD during the Crisis, which is where we'll be looking to include your section; but we're also planning a tribute to some of the unsung heroes of the occupation - civilians who kept the medical shelters going, kept the food supplies running, those who may have joined you in the resistance..." Here Gordon noted a slight faltering in Engel's otherwise perfect nonchalance. "I feel that you could offer some insight. And also, if I am honest -”

“You mean you weren’t completely honest with me before?” Gordon said, lifting his eyebrows delicately. Engel grimaced, the touch of sarcasm in the commissioner’s voice not escaping him.

“Yes and no. You see, I do want to talk to you about your part in the Crisis and this year just past; but I also want to talk to you about someone else.” 

Gordon didn’t say anything, just waited in silence for Engel to continue. It didn’t take long.

“I want to talk to you about Bruce Wayne.”

And there it was. Gordon sat there stonily, staring down Engel, to make sure he was on the level. Engel fidgeted in his seat a little, but met the commissioner's gaze. It wasn't a wind-up. Shit.

"Why?" Gordon asked.

"I'm sorry?"

“I said; 'Why'? I believe I have already told you all that I know about the murder of Bruce Wayne. Shortly after his funeral, as I recall.”

“You gave me a statement, yes,” Engel said. “But you haven’t told me all you know; not by any means.”

Gordon narrowed his eyes.

“Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Engel?”

At this point any other journalist, perhaps with the exception of the formidable Lois Lane, would have taken the hint to back down and steered the interview onto a safer subject; Engel however furnished Gordon with a grim smile.

“I was sixteen years an investigative journalist at the _Daily Planet_ before I was offered my current job at GCN, commissioner, and in that time Perry White taught me three things; One - always get the streaker’s name and address. Two - when it comes to politics never believe anything until it’s been officially denied. And Three - know when I’m being lied to.”

Engel leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, his blue eyes alight with excitement.

“And you’re the best liar of them all, Gordon, because you don't even lie; all you do is simply forget to tell the truth. No one remembers seeing Wayne at all during the Crisis, save for those last two days when he was captured. How did he evade Bane all that time? Did he have help? What was he doing? What do you know, commissioner?"

"Mr. Engel -"

"It's to do with the Batman, isn't it?" Engel continued, as if Gordon hadn't spoken. "You've been keeping an awful lot of secrets for him, haven't you? Like Harvey Dent. You actively chose to preserve the reputation of the man who threatened to kill your wife and children, and for what? For eight years you sat there, watching your so-called 'partner' hounded by your forces on a false charge, and all the while staying silent while Gotham fell apart at the seams -"

"That's enough!" Gordon was on his feet, slamming his fists down on the desk. With Engel stunned into silence he dropped his voice to just above a whisper, his words carrying an edge of winter ice. "Mr. Engel, either you substantiate your ridiculous conjectures with some hard evidence, or you do the decent thing and show some respect for the dead. And now, if there is nothing else, you can get the hell out of my office; I have a murder to solve." 

Engel hesitated, wavering between leaving and pressing home his question, but he had the sense to see that he would get no answers from Gordon; especially with the commissioner in such a dangerous mood. Engel stood, tucking his notebook and pen into his jacket pocket, straightening his tie with considerable dignity.

"Thank you for your time, commissioner. Doubtless I'll see you later at the press conference?"

Then not waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him with a soft _click_. Alone, Gordon lost no time in fumbling for his cell phone in his coat pocket, thankful that the number he needed was programmed into his speed-dial; he didn't trust his hands to stop shaking long enough to type it in. After only a couple of rings the other end of the line picked up.

“Blake.”

“It’s Gordon,” Jim said, making an effort to bite down on his anger. Obviously he wasn’t quite successful, as Blake picked up that something was off immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Gordon lied, then relented; it didn't sound convincing even to him. “Nothing drastic. There’s a chance you’ll be getting a call from Mike Engel at GCN asking for an interview about the Crisis. Don’t agree to it, whatever you do; it’s a ploy to try and get at Bruce.”

“I consider myself warned,” Blake said, sounding vaguely bemused. “Anything else I should know?”

“No. I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Ok. Later.”

Gordon snapped the phone shut, the call ending just as there was a knock on the door and Stephens stepped into the office. The detective took one look at Gordon and shut the door behind him.

“You okay, boss?”

“I’m fine, Gerry,” Gordon answered, replacing the phone in his pocket with deliberate calm.

“Right, like I’m buying that,” Stephens snorted, arms folded across his chest. “That sounded like an interview Press Relations would've been proud of."

Gordon grimaced. "You heard?"

"Only the last bit when you told that creep to go fuck himself - which I would back you in saying one hundred percent. Davies is hoping for a repeat performance at the press conference later."

"I'll try not to disappoint."

Stephens' expression, however, told Gordon that he was clearly not buying his bullshit. As if Stephens ever would.

"Something’s eatin’ you, Jim," he said quietly. "Takes a lot to get you that riled; I should know. What did Engel want?"

For a brief moment Gordon considered insisting that he was 'fine' again, but who was he kidding? He shrugged, running a hand through his greying hair.

“He wants to do an exposé on Bruce Wayne's death and the Batman."

"Jesus," Stephens breathed. "Doesn't that asshole ever stop with the bullshit?"

"He’s blowing smoke. He thinks there’s a story in all this and he’s trying to get it out of me.” Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. He felt suddenly drained. “Problem is he’s right.”

“Say what?”

"There was more to Bruce Wayne's death than I've let people believe," Gordon said wearily. "But it was simpler to let them think he was executed like all the rest."

"I forget sometimes you got close right at the end," Stephens said, watching Gordon carefully. "What happened, Jim? You never talk about that day. You know, if you need to talk about it, you can tell me, right?”

Gordon studied Stephens warily, and the other detective immediately caught onto this hesitancy and sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Unless of course it’s about the Bat. It is about the Bat, isn't it? You’re wearing your ‘I’m-worried-about-Batman-and-I-can’t-tell-anybody’ look.”

“I am?” Gordon blinked in surprise. This was news to him, and slightly worrying news at that. Was he really that easy to read? Barbara used to say she could always read him like a book, especially when he was lying.

“Been seeing it a lot lately,” Stephens said simply.

Apparently so. Gordon met Stephens' gaze steadily. He trusted the detective with his life - had done so on several occasions - but could he tell him this? He wanted to. God knew how much Gordon wanted to tell anyone - everyone - just how wrong they had been about Bruce Wayne, how much he had sacrificed for the city he loved and how he had paid the ultimate price for his devotion. But he couldn't tell the whole truth. The whole truth would reveal Bruce as the Batman and ultimately lead to Lucius, Alfred and Blake; and he had no energy left to lie. He shook his head.

“Now’s not the time,” he said. “I’ll tell you this, though; he was braver than anyone ever gave him credit for – hopefully one day I'll be able to say why.”

Stephens stood silently for a moment, then nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"You know, I always thought he was just another rich dickhead," Stephens said, perching on the edge of Gordon's desk, arms folded. "But you gotta figure, after the life he had, he was just another screwed-up kid. You'd think if anyone deserved to finally be left alone, it'd be him."

Gordon knew that Stephens was thinking of that night over thirty years ago when Thomas and Martha Wayne had been killed. They had both been rookies then; Gordon on the desk that night, Stephens one of the beat cops pulled in off the street to keep the seething mass of reporters at bay outside police headquarters. When Bruce had finally left they’d had to link arms to clear a path for him, as if they were facing down a union strike or something, and even then it had taken all their strength to keep the crowd from swallowing Gotham’s little prince whole. Gordon had hated Loeb for making the kid run that gauntlet. If Chill had got away Bruce would have been quietly smuggled out the back door, left to come to terms with his loss in peace; but Chill had been caught, and though the Waynes’ deaths were a tragedy Loeb was eager for the opportunity to show justice swiftly and efficiently served in Gotham. So Bruce Wayne had been taken out the front entrance, escorted down the steps and into a waiting Bentley whilst a coldly dignified Alfred Pennyworth had done his best to shield the terrified nine-year-old from the camera flashes.

Back in the present day Gordon indicated the slim manila folder Stephens had been brandishing on his way in, now tucked under the detective's arm. “What’s that you got there?”

“This? I was thinking about what the rookie said yesterday –” Stephens said, holding out the file for Gordon to inspect. “– ‘bout Malone turning up so conveniently with the gangs at each others’ throats. Thought I’d take a look at his file again; refresh my memory, so to speak, if we’re going to be dealing with him again.”

“Good chance we will,” Gordon said, taking the file and flicking through it. Joseph Malone, alias “Matches”; so called after his habit of walking around with a matchstick clenched between his teeth, ready to strike at a moments’ notice. Gordon remembered the gangster well from his few previous brushes with him. Malone was brash and annoying; not the sharpest knife in the drawer by any means, well in with all of the families but largely steering clear of the dirtier business deals - and, as far as they knew, he’d never ordered anyone killed. Still that had been nine years ago, and a lot could change in nine years. He should know.

"Also got me thinking about Johnny Franks," Stephens continued, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Franks was a contact for Malone whenever he was dealing meth. May not come to anything much, but I reckon there's a chance Malone might know something we don't – like why someone thought it'd be a good idea to put Johnny and his girlfriend out with the trash."

"Malone's no informer. If we do find something to bring him in on, chances are he won't talk to us."

Stephens gave him a significant look.

"I wasn't thinking it would be us asking the questions," he said with quiet emphasis.

All at once Gordon's gut started twisting itself in knots. Stephens was actually _asking_ him to sic the Batman on Malone? True, it was highly unlikely that they would get anything out of Malone themselves, yet even so... And was Blake up to it? He'd come a long way in a year, but was he ready for something like this? There were times when he was still thinking like a cop - that perp getting free outside the library proved as much- And Gordon bit down aggressively on that train of thought, telling himself to stop it. If it had been Bruce he wouldn't have even been asking such questions; he'd have been up on that roof, switching on the signal and trusting in the Batman's ability to do what was needed without a second's hesitation. Blake didn't deserve any lesser treatment than he would have given Bruce.

“Do we have an address?” he asked, feeling ashamed of himself and trying to hide it by flicking back to the front of the rather slender file to study Malone’s mugshot.

“Not for Matches,” Stephens replied, apparently oblivious to his boss' intensely brief conflict of emotions. “He’s showing some smarts for once and lying low, but he kept a girl when he was last in Gotham; some two-bit hooker by the name of Sukie Jones, works the corner of Grove and Twenty-Third. If he’s looking up old friends there’s a chance he’s been to see her.”

“Send Bullock and Montoya round to talk to her. If she knows where he is there’s a chance...”

His voice dried up in his throat, however, as he looked over Malone’s photograph.

“Jim?” Stephens prompted.

“I’m cracking up, Gerry," Gordon muttered. It couldn’t be. He had to be imagining it. "It’s finally happening.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“Remind you of anyone?” Gordon detached the mugshot from the file and slid it over the desk to him. Stephens frowned, picking up the picture and looking it over.

“Tyrone Power?” he hazarded after about half a minute.

“Without the moustache.”

Stephens looked again, his brow creasing in concentration, and a moment later his eyes grew wide in astonishment.

“Holy fuck!”

“Oh good,” Gordon said flatly, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Glad I’m not the only one going crazy ‘round here.”

“You reckon that’s what this ‘ghost’ business is, then?” Stephens asked, tapping the photo. “People thinking they’ve seen Wayne when really it’s Malone?”

“Were it that simple,” Gordon sighed. “But the sightings have definitely been of Wayne, not some guy with a moustache who looks a lot like him in a bad light.”

“Yeah, that would be too simple,” Stephens agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and glancing at the photo again. “’S funny; I never noticed before. Probably those stupid glasses of his.”

“Must be it,” Gordon muttered, and though his gut was insisting otherwise he pushed the feeling to one side; he had better and much more urgent things to worry about than an overgrown tabloid hoax. “Let Bullock and Montoya know they’re to pay Sukie a visit; you head on down to the mortuary to see what else they’ve been able to get on Anna Sanchez.”

Left alone once again Gordon sagged back in his chair and reached for his coffee, only to find it had gone cold. There would be no time to go out and get a fresh cup before his briefing for the press conference on Anna Sanchez, either. Perfect. Sighing audibly, Gordon got up and headed for the microwave, huddled in the bullpen's small kitchenette between the sink and the coffeemaker. As he tipped the contents of the paper cup into a mug and punched the keypad, the question he'd asked himself earlier that morning resurfaced unbidden in his mind: Since when had he started to find the idea of fucking Bruce Wayne attractive?

Yet the answer, when it came to him, was pathetically simple; ever since he had put a name to the face behind that cowl.


	4. Generosity and Parsimony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than previous installments, but since it's been over two months since I last updated I felt the need to post something.

It could never be said at any point in its history that Gotham’s East End had been considered a desirable neighbourhood. The streets upon streets of crumbling brownstones clad in garish neon signs advertising numerous and dubious pleasures had undeniably seen better days, as had so much of Old Gotham, yet it was still infinitely preferable to the Narrows. Here the occupants were merely desperate, not yet desolate, and subscribed to at least the belief that they were still human.

“I’ll do the talking on this one,” Bullock said as he and Montoya climbed the gloomy stairwell of the apartment block on the somewhat whimsically named Meadow Avenue. Montoya cast him a sideways glance, narrowing her eyes.

“There a reason why you’re treating me like the proverbial rookie today, partner?” she asked. “‘Cause if you wanted a kick in the balls all you had to do was ask.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Bullock countered, pushing open the door to the second floor. “Just that I got this one covered. Sukie knows me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Montoya muttered darkly. Bullock rolled his eyes.

“Jeez, have a little faith, why don’t you?”

Stepping over a passed-out wino slumped in the corridor the detectives walked the length of the hallway, coming to a stop at apartment No. 207. Bullock knocked, Montoya schooling her features into an expression of polite neutrality as the door was opened on the chain and a young redheaded woman peered out through the gap. Wide blue eyes assessed them. Afraid. Calculating.

“Hey, Sukie,” Bullock purred, leaning against the doorframe and putting on what he thought to be his most charming smile. Montoya mentally congratulated herself for resisting the urge to bang her head against the wall. “Long time no see.”

The pretty blue eyes immediately dropped their pretence of innocent fear in favour of open hostility.

“Not long enough,” the woman sneered, not releasing her hold on the door. “Didn’t no one tell you I ain’t on the game anymore?”

“C’mon, Sukie,” Bullock looked genuinely hurt. “You know I left Vice years ago!”

“Yeah?” she drawled, arching one perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “Then give me another reason why you’re still bugging me?”

With the initial unpleasantries exchanged Renee decided to take pity on her partner and bail him out before he got too far out of his depth. Harvey would thank her for it later, even if he wouldn’t appreciate it then and there. Taking a step forward she flashed Sukie her badge, reckoning she might as well start again from the beginning.

“Detectives Montoya and Bullock, MCU,” she said brusquely. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Joseph Malone, Miss Jones.”

“Matches?” With her attention redirected from Bullock, Sukie seemed genuinely surprised at the errand. “Why’d you want to know about him?”

“We have reason to believe he has some information regarding an ongoing case and we’re looking to talk to him.”

“You mean arrest him,” Sukie said coldly. Montoya forced herself to smile. Well, if they were going for brutal honesty two could play at that game.

“If we find out he has anything to do with the murder of Anna Sanchez then yes, Miss Jones, I’ll personally drag his scrawny plaid-covered ass down to Central Holdings and give him a makeover he won’t forget in a hurry.” Montoya’s smile brightened. “If not, then I’ll have to forego the pleasure for now. Would you mind if we stepped inside?”

A fractional lift of her eyebrows was the only change in expression on Sukie’s face, yet Montoya could tell she was nonetheless impressed. The redhead’s next question was proof enough.

“You got a warrant?” she asked.

“Reckon we’d be asking if we did?” Bullock griped, at which Montoya shot him one of her more severe warning glares. Sukie was at least considering the idea of letting them in; now was not the time to be antagonistic.

“We’re not here to search, Miss Jones,” Montoya continued, her voice softening a fraction. Yes, now was definitely the time to be conciliatory. “We really do just want to talk. If you could spare us a moment of your time? It shouldn’t take long.”

Sukie paused a moment, frowning at the detectives as she thought it over. Then she shrugged and shut the door in their faces.

“Nice going, partner,” Bullock quipped, but before Renee could tell him to shut up and be patient there was the rattle of the chain being taken off and the door swung open inwards on its hinges. It was as near as they’d get to an invitation. The detectives exchanged glances, and Renee smiled sweetly at Bullock.

“After you, _partner_.”

The apartment was small; pokey and sparsely furnished, but clean and in surprisingly good repair. Montoya made a note of the layout as she and Bullock followed Sukie into the kitchen; a bathroom, two bedrooms (one with the name ‘Donny’ written on a plaque on the door in the shape of a smiling blue elephant) and the kitchen – which with a sagging couch and small television in one corner appeared to double as a lounge. Various drawings of aliens, stars and space rockets were pinned to the refrigerator with brightly-coloured magnets, and splayed out on the couch was a large stuffed toy camel. Judging by the way the camel’s head drooped drunkenly to one side and its stuffing was squashed down almost to nothing Montoya deduced that it had been well-loved over the years. The only incongruous item to be seen was a vase of two dozen red roses set on the tiny kitchen table, looking overly large and very out of place. A gilt-edged card had been propped up next to them.

“From Matches,” Sukie said over her shoulder, busying herself filling the kettle from the sink. “They came this morning.”

Montoya picked up the card for a closer examination. The handwriting was an almost child-like scrawl, but perfectly legible: _Baby, you set my heart on fire. M. xx._

“Cute,” Montoya commented flatly. Sukie shrugged, plugging the kettle back in and flicking the switch.

“He likes me, and I like him. Got manners, makes me laugh, and unlike most guys I know –” She shot a glare at Bullock, who had seen fit to take up what part of the couch was not occupied by the camel. “– he’s a real gentleman.”

“Romantic too,” Montoya commented, waving the card between two fingers. Bullock snorted from where he was lounging across the other side of the room, taking his cue to revert to his usual role of douchebag in the Good Cop/Bad Cop partnership that was Bullock and Montoya.

“Romantic and a gentleman,” he said sceptically. “Sounds too good to be true, ‘you ask me.”

“So what?” Sukie bit back, folding her arms across her ample chest. “He ain’t cheatin’ on me, if that’s what you’re driving at; not in Gotham. I’d know if he was. I may not be on the game anymore, but the girls’d let me know.”

“Seems like you’ve already forgiven him, though,” Montoya observed, still twirling the card in her fingers thoughtfully. “I mean, nine years? Not sure I’d take back a guy’d run out on me for so long.”

Whatever she had expected, Montoya had never imagined she’d strike such a nerve so early on in proceedings; yet at her question Sukie turned away, leaning heavily on the edge of the sink, the muscles of her neck tightening as she clenched her jaw. Other sounds filtered in to fill the resulting silence as Renee waited patiently for a response; the low whistling of the kettle as it boiled, the creak of old springs as Bullock shifted impatiently, the blaring of a TV set in the next apartment, whilst elsewhere in the building a baby cried at the top of its lungs and a woman bawled at it to shut up.

“He had to go,” Sukie said finally, quietly breaking the oppressive hush. “He didn’t have any choice.”

“Why would that be?” Montoya asked gently. Sukie raised her head and the expression in her eyes was tired and sad, all pretence at anger or bravado gone.

“Gotham wasn’t safe for him after Dent took out Maroni. Wasn’t safe for a lot of people. Word was he went to Chicago and ended up playing _gigolo_ to Carla Viti for a while till she got bored with him.”

Bullock made a choking noise from over on the couch.

“And he lived?” he asked incredulously. Montoya could understand his astonishment, as she was having a hard time believing it herself. Carla Viti, head of the Viti crime family and matriarch of the Chicago Mob, was the younger sister of the late Carmine Falcone with a reputation for being every bit as ruthless as her brother – and then some. The men she picked out to perform ‘bedroom security’, as it had been dubbed, rarely had any choice in the matter and just as rarely lived long after they’d fallen out of her favour. Sukie gave a thin smile.

“Matches is a survivor. Should I have been angry with him? Maybe. He’d been gone nine years and not so much as a postcard! But in all that time he never stopped sending money to pay for Donny’s schooling, so I guessed that we meant something to him after all.” She shrugged. “Yeah, he’s been around. He spends the night sometimes but he ain’t livin’ here – and I dunno where he’s staying either, so don’t bother asking me.”

Bullock raised an eyebrow.

“So what’s got him acting secretive all of a sudden? Used to be you couldn’t miss the guy.”

“He says it’s best I don’t know. There’s people who’d kill to know where to find him.”

“He forget to give Carla Viti a goodbye kiss on his way out of Chicago?” Montoya asked archly.

“No, it’s...” Sukie looked back and forth between the two detectives. “You guys know what’s going on between the Mob bosses, right?”

“Hard not to.” Montoya was unable to conceal a wince at the thought. “Last we heard it was set to go down between Arnold Stromwell, Gianni Valestra and Rupert Thorne. Gonna be hell when it finally kicks off.”

But Sukie shook her head.

“You’re info’s out of date. Valestra’s out of the running; he transferred all his support to Stromwell Saturday morning.”

Bullock let out a long, low whistle.

“Shit!” he murmured. “Guess that means it’ll be Stromwell.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Sukie said. “Stromwell and Valestra needed to call a truce in order to stand a chance against Thorne; and it’s going to be bad this time, real bad. Thorne’s got a backer – serious power, serious money – and he’s dangerous. Matches is the last of the gang bosses to commit to a side, and the guys at the top are getting impatient. Both Thorne and Stromwell have been trying to lean on him, seeing which way he’ll jump, but Matches isn’t having any of it; says he’ll make up his own damn mind or they can start their war without him.”

“Either he’s stupid or he’s got a hell of a lot more balls than I ever thought he had,” Bullock murmured, grudgingly impressed. Once again the thin smile tugged at Sukie’s lips.

“If there’s one thing Matches has never been short of, it’s balls. Dumb and an asshole at times, but he’s never run away from a fight.”

Once again silence descended on the little kitchen and Sukie sighed heavily, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear before raising her eyes to meet Montoya’s.

“If you’re really looking to talk to Matches you can do no worse than try the Stacked Deck. He’s still friendly with Lou, the barman; he might know somethin’ I don’t.”

Montoya glanced at Bullock, who shrugged – a movement which sent the already lopsided camel toppling sideways into his lap. He’d caught her meaning, though; that had come easy. Too easily it would seem after their cold reception in the hallway.

“You reckon Malone would be happy with you telling us that?” Bullock asked, setting the camel to rights against the arm of the couch. It still leaned drunkenly to one side.

“There’s a lot of things Matches wouldn’t be happy about,” Sukie said simply, implying that she wasn’t afraid that Malone would find out, or she didn’t care if he did. “Like he wouldn’t be happy with me letting you through the door. It’s dangerous to be seen talking to you guys.”

“Ain’t it always been dangerous?” Bullock commented glibly, but Sukie shook her head.

“No, not like it is now. Not since before –” She lowered her voice, her eyes flickering towards the hallway door, as if she were afraid someone might be listening in. “– Y’know, since the Bat showed up. But someone’s gotta speak up for Anna. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? That guy Hinsky, and the murders of Anna and Johnny. You reckon Matches is involved and you want to find out what he knows – or did.”

Montoya held her breath, her heart hammering hard in her chest. If what Sukie was saying was true – and there was no real reason why it shouldn’t be – they had just struck gold; the vital thing now was to keep her talking. In her head Renee heard the voice of Lt. O’Shea giving the lecture on interrogation techniques all those years ago at the academy: _Take it easy, tease it out bit by bit as it comes. Give them time. Don’t appear too eager, or they’ll clam up on you._

“You knew Anna Sanchez?” Montoya prompted. _Don’t appear too eager._ Sukie nodded.

“We worked the same corner years ago, kept in touch. I told her not to get mixed up with garbage like Johnny but she wouldn’t listen, and now she’s wound up getting hurt, like I knew she would.” 

“So you reckon that’s why someone killed her?” _Give them time._ “Because she talked?”

“No, not her; Johnny. Johnny came round here the night before he was killed. Matches was over and we were watching a movie, but somehow Johnny knew he would be here and turned up hammering on the door fit to wake half the neighbourhood. He was in bad shape, shaking and white as a ghost; Matches had to feed him two shots of rye to calm him down. I don’t know much of what he was saying – I went into Donny’s room to make sure he wouldn’t be scared if the noise woke him – and Johnny wasn’t making much sense anyway. From what I could hear though it was clear that he’d talked to someone about Hinksy.”

“About what time would you say that was?”

“Eleven-twenty, eleven-thirtyish; maybe a little later. He was definitely gone by twelve.”

“Did you hear Johnny say who he’d talked to?”

“No. Like I said, he wasn’t making much sense, but whoever it was Johnny thought Matches could protect him when they found out. Some hope! Matches is worried enough about protecting himself, let alone anyone else. Johnny shoulda known better than to talk – and now thanks to him Anna’s dead.”

“You’re talking to us,” Montoya pointed out. Sukie shrugged, folding her arms and dropping her gaze to the floor again.

“Johnny wasn’t careful who he talked to. You’re ok, Bullock, you were never one of the bent ones, and your partner’s no snitch either. If anything happens to me it won’t be because of you.”

“If you need witness protection we could –” Montoya began, but stopped when Sukie bit her lip in an attempt to stifle her laughter. 

“Sorry,” Sukie apologised when her shoulders had stopped shaking. “But you guys know that’s the quickest route to the bottom of the Gotham River, and if I wanted that I’d just hand myself over to the Mob with ‘snitch’ written on my forehead in magic marker!”

“Says the chick who’s with the boss of the Waterfront gang,” Bullock commented bluntly. Sukie’s smile vanished to be replaced once more with the familiar glare.

“Like I said,” she said quietly. “Matches is different. He’s a gentleman; he’d never hurt me. Don’t ‘spect you to believe that, but it’s true.”

\-------

“So much for you doing the talking,” Renee complained as they stepped back out into the hallway.

“Hey, I had it covered!” Bullock countered. “She only pretends to hate me. Another minute and I would’ve had her eating out of my hand.”

“Right,” Montoya scoffed, as they stepped back over the wino on their way out. “And here was I thinking that was just the traditional female response to the legendary charms of Harvey Bullock.”

“Bitch.”

“Asshole.”

The walk back to Harvey’s beaten-up old Ford was short and uneventful. Rough and rotten the East End might be, but its more unsavoury activities were largely nocturnal; unlike the Narrows, which tried its best to replicate Hell on Earth 24/7.

“Seems the rookie was right,” Montoya remarked as she climbed back into the car, automatically reaching for the belt as she settled back into the lumpy passenger seat. “They’re mob hits, all three of them, and Malone knows the answers as to why – that is if we’re buying her story.”

“Don’t see no real reason not to,” Bullock said, slamming the car door and startling a lanky old tom cat from where it had been rooting through a nearby trashcan. 

“So you’re taking her word on it?”

“Sure there’s more to it than that,” Bullock replied. “There always is, but she’s pointed us in the direction of Malone, which is as good a start as any. Not like she had anything to gain by talking to us in the first place, either.”

Renee nodded her agreement, looking back up to the apartment block. Sukie would no doubt be watching from a window until they’d gone.

“Nine years,” Montoya pondered. “Wonder why he came back to her?”

“Because of the kid.”

Renee turned to look at Bullock, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“He’s Malone’s?”

“Nah, little Donny was on the way well before she met Malone. Story goes the condom split one night she was with a john and she was holding money back to get a termination, but her pimp found out and the guy woulda cut her up over it if Malone hadn’t stopped him. After that Malone promised he’d take care of her and the kid. So far he’s made good on it, and mommy’s able to stay off the streets thanks to ‘Uncle Lon’.”

Renee made a non-committal noise, impressed despite herself. In her experience there were few men anywhere, let alone in the Mob, would stick up for a hooker like that.

“Reckon he’ll talk?” she asked. Bullock shrugged.

“If he don’t talk to us he’s gonna get a Bat up his ass, which means he’ll get what’s been coming to him for a long time. I don’t like it when the scumbags know more than me.”

“Still,” Montoya mused. “What he did for Sukie... Kinda makes you wish there were more like that.”

“Don’t,” Bullock sneered, turning the key in the ignition viciously and the engine sputtered into life. “Malone and his kind are the worst there is. One day they’ll knock over a pension fund, but the next they’ll help a little old lady across the street. They hide their dirt well under the manners, playing at respectability, and no one will lift a finger to stop them ‘coz they dress nice, act polite to the people that matter and grease the wheels in all the right places. In my book that makes them worse than the freaks; ‘cause at least the monsters don’t pretend to be human. So don’t go getting all nostalgic ‘bout ‘gentlemen’ gangsters – cause the moment you do, there’s no turning back.”

Renee gave Bullock a sideways glance, knowing she had unintentionally touched a raw nerve with her partner. She herself had only known Gotham after the Batman, but Bullock was one of the remaining few who had struggled to stay even partially clean in a police force that was more than filthy.

“That how Carmine Falcone played it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bullock said quietly. “And it sucked.”

Looking down on the street from her apartment window, Sukie watched the detectives get in the car and drive away. Once they were out of sight she crossed to the phone and hastily dialled a number.

“Vince? It’s Sukie. I need to talk to Matches.”


	5. The Need to Avoid Contempt and Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look out, Ol' Matches is back!

As Bullock and Montoya were concluding their business in the East End, Blake was sat outside Fox’s office waiting patiently for the older man to finish a meeting and trying very hard not to make eye contact with Jessica. Had it only been two days since he’d last been here? So much had happened in such a short space of time – and yet somehow nothing seemed to have changed.

If he were honest with himself, Blake was not entirely certain whether the fleeting figure amongst the gravestones had been Bruce Wayne or whether his fantasies were starting to run away with him. Could it be possible that Bruce was alive; that he was back in Gotham and once more planning to fight crime from the shadows? All reason howled against the concept that Bruce could yet again return from the dead – and from no less than a nuclear explosion – but every ounce of Blake’s instinct knew that there was more in play here than his imagination, and if all his years in Gotham had taught him anything it was to go with his instincts.

What he was here to find out was if anyone else agreed with those instincts.

“–warn you, Lucius, I’m not a man who takes no for an answer. You can’t put me off forever.”

Blake turned in his seat as the door to Lucius’ office opened and Derek Powers stepped into the outer office, closely followed by a tightly-smiling Lucius Fox.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the prize better if you’ve worked for it a little, Mr Powers,” Lucius said, his smile thinning even further. Apparently oblivious to the barely veiled sarcasm Powers let out a gale of laughter, resting a hand on Lucius’ shoulder.

“Oh Lucius, you’re fantastic! I know I’m going to enjoy working with you.”

“I have no doubt it will prove educational, Mr Powers,” Lucius replied diplomatically, but Blake could see the growing strain beneath the veneer of politeness on his employer’s face. Deciding that Fox would probably welcome the intervention Blake rose from his seat, straightened his suit jacket and slid into the role of ‘Young and Inexperienced Executive’.

“Mr Fox?”

Fox and Powers turned to look at him, relief and annoyance both in evidence at his interruption. Powers looked Blake up and down coldly, the expression in his dark eyes sharp and critical.

“I’m sorry, Mr...?” he queried mildly.

“Yes, my apologies.” Lucius’ smile became a touch more genuine. “Mr Powers, allow me to introduce John Blake; estate manager of the Wayne Orphanage and my executive consultant on the partnership programme with the Gotham Police Department.”

“Mr Blake.” A spark of recognition flitted across the young tycoon’s face, and Powers grinned wolfishly as he shook Blake’s outstretched hand. “We meet at last! Lucius has been telling me about all the good work you’re doing with the GCPD.”

“Thank you, sir.” Blake kept his expression carefully neutral, despite the sick feeling in his stomach. Gordon’s advice to work on his poker face was really paying off. “I hope you’ll consider continuing with the project should the merger prove successful.”

Derek Powers was a couple of inches shorter than Blake and a good few years younger, with ash-blond hair and dark brown eyes. Yet despite his youth and polished manners there was something immediately unsettling about Powers, in that he seemed to radiate an aura of refined menace. Blake did not doubt it was one of the reasons Powers’ career in Daggett Industries had advanced so rapidly.

“It’s in all our interests to help Gotham’s Finest where we can,” Powers said smoothly, and Blake noted the answer was in no way a commitment. “I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the near future, Mr Blake.”

“I expect you will, Mr Powers,” Lucius cut in, before Blake could reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have some urgent business to attend to with Mr Blake. Jessica will show you out.”

“He seems friendly,” Blake commented bluntly as Fox shut the office door behind him, all too happy to put a barrier between them and Derek Powers.

“He’ll fire me on the spot,” Lucius grumbled, walking back over to his desk. “Or manoeuvre me into early retirement; force me to surrender my shares and then kick me out of the company. He won’t make the same mistake as Earle by keeping me on.” He sat down with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair and sent Blake a questioning glance. “So what can I do for you, Mr Blake? I wasn’t expecting to see you for a few days yet.”

“It’s nothing to do with business this time, Mr Fox,” Blake said, taking a seat opposite his employer. “More of a personal matter. I’m... starting to wonder if I might believe in ghosts.”

“Well, I must admit no one’s ever come to me for spiritual guidance before,” Lucius said after a moment of stunned silence.

“One ghost in particular,” Blake persevered, steadily meeting the other man’s gaze. He had resolved, whilst waiting outside Fox’s office, to address the subject directly. Being purposefully vague wouldn’t help either of them on this occasion. “One that’s been receiving a lot of media attention in Gotham of late.”

All traces of amusement vanished from Lucius’ face.

“I don’t find that very funny, Mr Blake,” he said flatly.

“Nor do I,” Blake countered. “Which is why I’ve come to you.”

Lucius’ brow creased with mild concern as it became clear that Blake was being utterly serious. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, regarding the younger man thoughtfully.

“And what, may I ask, has brought this on?” he enquired, his voice softening a fraction.

Blake rose to his feet and took a few restless paces towards the windows, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Where to begin? He lifted his head and gazed out at the Gotham skyline, wondering how to relate the tale without sounding unhinged.

“The night before last –” Blake’s throat had suddenly gone dry, making it hard to speak. “– I think I saw him. It was about six-thirty; I’d just got back to the Orphanage and was parking the car when I spotted someone standing amongst the gravestones of the Wayne family plot. I thought it was one of the boys – you know how they’ve been daring each other to stay there overnight – so I went to fetch him out. I mean, out all night in the snow? Stupid kid would have frozen to death. As I got closer, though, I realised it wasn’t one of the kids; it was a guy. He was about six-feet-one, maybe six-feet-two, wearing a grey sweater with the hood pulled up, a baseball cap covering his face. Doubt I would’ve seen him if I’d been driving any faster. I tried to talk to him, find out what he was doing there, but when I got close he ran. I chased him into the kitchen garden, but then I lost sight of him and he just vanished. No trace of him whatsoever.”

“Sounds like a mortal interloper rather than a phantom, Mr Blake.”

“So I thought,” Blake continued, his jaw setting in a grim line. “Until I saw him move. He vaulted over the railings easy as anything and he was fast; real fast. I’ve seen moves like that before, but only from one person. That, and he was standing by Thomas Wayne’s headstone.”

“Coincidence?” Lucius suggested. “A trick of the light, perhaps?”

“Pretty sure a trick of the light wouldn’t leave footprints,” Blake commented dryly. “I mean, it was a funeral without a body; are we really even sure he’s dead?”

Lucius swung round in his chair, regarding Blake steadily over steepled fingers.

“If it were Bruce Wayne,” he asked. “Why would he run?”

“I don’t know,” Blake replied, honestly baffled. This was what was getting him. “But I’m betting he’d run if he thought he had a reason to.”

A short silence filled the office as Lucius sat digesting the information and Blake stood contemplating the snow-shrouded city, shoulders slumped and hands thrust deep in his pockets.

“Have you told any of this to the commissioner?” Lucius finally asked.

“Not yet,” Blake said. “I wanted to get your thoughts before I spoke to him.”

Lucius nodded, levering himself up from his chair to join Blake by the window.

“We’d better run a check on the manor’s security systems to see if any of the perimeter sensors are malfunctioning,” he said briskly. “Otherwise I strongly suggest, Mr Blake, you keep what you’ve seen to yourself. Jim Gordon has enough on his plate to deal with already without being handed false hope.”

Blake’s face fell.

“There’s really no way Bruce could have survived?”

“Mr Blake,” Lucius said sombrely, gently but firmly laying a hand on Blake’s shoulder. The businessman suddenly looked very old and very tired. “Mr Wayne was an endlessly inventive man. His was one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever known, but there comes a time when even the smartest men run out of ideas.”

He paused, a sigh escaping his lips before he continued.

“And though I’d like nothing better than to believe otherwise, I know in my bones that Bruce Wayne will not be returning to Gotham.”

\-------

Once more the Batsignal illuminated the clouds above Gotham. It had begun snowing again in the last half hour and Gordon huddled closer to the spotlight, taking what little warmth he could and cursing the sense of urgency that had overridden the more rational thought to bring up his usual flask of coffee.

It was now gone nine at night; eleven hours since Gordon had given the Sanchez press conference. Second Shift had clocked in and the First Shift reports were resting on the nearby parapet, alongside Bullock and Montoya’s rough transcript of their interview with Sukie Jones. Apparently Stephens’ hunch had paid off and Malone did know something about the murder of Johnny Franks – and there by association would know something about Hinksy. It had been another long day, there was no denying it, but it was by no means over yet.

Surprisingly the press conference had gone off without much incident. Engel had been there but he had not been looking to make trouble, confining his questions solely to the topic on hand which made an unusual but pleasant change. Maybe some of what had been said earlier that morning had made an impression? Gordon dismissed that thought as soon as it had arisen. Engel was not the sort to give up easily, and was most likely waiting for a more opportune moment to corner him; one which didn’t involve a room full of rival reporters being tipped off to a potential scoop.

Leafing through Montoya’s report, Gordon’s brow furrowed deeper as he once again reviewed the facts of the case so far – as he had done every day since the name ‘Hinksy’ had gone up in red on the board in the MCU bullpen. Stuart Hinksy had been an unremarkable man of average height and middle age; a family man with a steady full-time job as a low grade lab technician in the Pharmaceuticals Division at Daggett Industries. Hinksy was methodical and efficient in his work, well-liked by his colleagues, up to date with his rent and credit bills, had no gambling debts, no unorthodox sexual tendencies and he wasn’t a drinker; there was therefore no obvious explanation as to why a week ago he had been found dead in a back alley five miles from his idyllically suburban house in Grafton, shot clean through the centre of the forehead. The body had been stripped naked after death, bound hand and foot with zip-strips, and left with a note nailed to its chest reading ‘TRAITOR’ in classic newspaper cut-and-paste style.

Hinksy’s family was distraught, his neighbours outraged, and anyone else who'd known him was equally baffled. His co-workers at Daggett Industries had nothing to add to the investigation, his immediate supervisor in the lab could not have been more astonished (“Stu was always so quiet, such a diligent guy, so not the _type_!”) and there was nothing on his employment record to suggest even the potential for any wrong-doing. The questions as to ‘why’ and ‘who’ had seemed a long way off being answered.

The dirt, however, had lain only just below the surface. As soon as Gordon’s team had started digging a little deeper it turned out that for the past ten months Hinksy had been receiving large sums of money on a regular basis from an anonymous source; far beyond that which his modest salary could ever account for. Further scrutiny of the Hinksy family home led to the discovery of an incriminating amount of heroin and cocaine slabs neatly stockpiled in the garden shed, which his wife genuinely had no idea even existed. It appeared the proceeds of his fairly profitable sideline in narcotics had been explained away to her as a raise.

Samples of the drugs came back from the lab testing as uncut and undiluted by the usual dealers’ tricks; the highest possible purity, the best there was to be had. Difficult enough for even the top Mob dealers to get hold of even with all their connections and resources, let alone a two-bit supplier at street level. All Narcotics teams had been sent to question every CI they had in an effort to identify Hinksy’s connections – who’d been buying off him, how he’d been getting his supplies, which gang he owed allegiance to – but there was nothing, not even a rumour. Two days into the investigation information about Hinksy had dried up completely, and then five days later Johnny Franks had turned up dead and no one was talking about him either. The coincidence was too great to be anything but suspicious.

Several other things were bothering Gordon about this case beyond the stony silence at street level. The lump payments into Hinksy’s account had been the first indication that there might be a Mob element to the case. Had Hinksy been acting alone or even as part of a small gang he would have deposited the money as it came in, in relatively small sums of cash spaced out irregularly. Instead the payments were a regular four thousand a month, wired from an offshore account in the Caymans. Even for the Mob that was unusual. Then there was the note nailed to Hinksy’s body, the ritual humiliation, Franks’ dismembered girlfriend and now the gun. Someone went to a lot of trouble planning out these three murders; a lot more than Gordon would have come to expect from some Mob in-fighting over a few stockpiled drugs. But something else was still nagging at the back of his mind – something they were missing, something important – yet Gordon was still no closer to figuring out what it might be.

Nine years ago it wouldn’t have mattered. Bruce would have known in an instant.

“Commissioner?”

Gordon spun round on his heels, heart pounding hard in his chest, to find an equally startled Batman staring back at him from over by the stairwell. Batman. But not Bruce.

“Commissioner?” Batman asked again, an edge of concern to his deep voice. “Is something wrong?”

“I...” Gordon visibly deflated as the tension seeped out of his shoulders. Blake. It was only Blake. “Seems like you’ve got the whole appearing from nowhere thing sorted.”

Batman cocked his head to one side in amusement, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’d better stop if I risk giving you a coronary each time.”

“No. No, it’s good that you’re getting better. Well done.”

But Batman narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced the older man’s state was entirely due to his being caught unawares.

“What’s wrong, commissioner?”

“Nothing, I...” Gordon began, but faltered as the gaze narrowed further. Gordon sighed, irritated, turning to lean on the parapet. There was an awkward silence in which Gordon could feel Batman watching him intently; but he waited, knowing that he wouldn’t be the first to speak.

“Bruce?” Batman questioned quietly.

“Yes,” Gordon admitted, wincing. His Batman would have waited; stayed silent and made Jim speak his mind by doing nothing else but simply being there. Though that Blake would know he was thinking about Bruce was not a comforting thought either, so he squared his shoulders, turned away from the snow-blurred skyline and frowned at the other man. They were here on business, after all. “But it’s not important. What do you know about Matches Malone?”

“What do you want to know?” Batman rumbled after only a moment’s hesitation, Gordon feeling ridiculously relieved that the vigilante had chosen to let the subject drop. The commissioner slid the file containing Montoya’s report along the parapet.

“It looks like there is a definite link between Hinksy and Johnny Franks. Bullock and Montoya talked to Sukie Jones this morning, Malone’s girl when he was last in Gotham, and she said Franks had been to see Malone the night before he died, demanding protection.”

“From who?” Batman asked, picking up the file and scanning through the report.

“She doesn’t know, but Franks had talked to someone about Hinksy’s murder against the wishes of whichever Mob boss has an interest in the investigation going cold. Sukie reckons it’s the reason he was killed.”

“And Malone refused to give protection?” Batman growled, looking up from the report, a glint of anger in those eyes. Gordon shrugged.

“More like ‘couldn’t’. Whoever put the word out is more than someone like Malone can hope to deal with.”

Batman gave a non-descript grunt, reading through the report one last time before replacing it in the file and handing it back to Gordon.

“You reckon there’s a chance Malone knew what Franks talked about?” he asked. Gordon’s moustache twitched at the corners.

“Actually, I was hoping you might go to the trouble of asking him for me,” he said lightly.

Batman stared at him, and Gordon imagined Blake’s eyebrows rising to meet his hairline beneath the cowl. He had never asked Blake for this sort of help before, preferring to use the man more for chasing down hard to access information and have his own people conduct any interrogations. This was a whole new level of trust, and Gordon hoped Blake was aware of that – as, deep down, he also prayed all his doubts about Blake not being up to the task would be proven wrong.

“You have any leads?” Batman eventually enquired.

“Just one,” Gordon said, unconsciously pulling his coat tighter around him. Was it his imagination, or was it getting colder up here? “He’s laying low, waiting for the dust to settle around the bosses before deciding which way to jump, but Sukie said he’s often to be found at the Stacked Deck.”

Batman nodded in acknowledgment.

“Prime spot along the Waterfront,” he huffed. “It’s as good a place as any to start.”

An awkward silence fell between them and Gordon shivered again, now more than ever regretting the absence of coffee. It would have been something to fill the silence as much as to keep them warm.

“So,” he asked, breaking the tension that had begun to thicken the air between them. “You got any thoughts on this?”

“Rupert Thorne,” Batman mumbled without a pause. Gordon felt somewhat satisfied that Blake also had been thinking along the same lines as he had. “Whoever’s responsible wants those that matter to get the message. It has to be someone in the Mob; someone powerful, someone who thinks he’s untouchable, someone with an eye for showmanship.”

“Not Stromwell or Valestra?”

“Thorne’s gone a long way in a very short time,” Batman said gruffly. “He and his backer have got Stromwell and Valestra on the defensive. Even so, political and financial interest will only get him so far; he needs fear and respect on the streets to secure his hold on the city.”

Gordon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure building there. Batman tilted his head to one side, studying Gordon with the same expression of concern as when he’d startled him on his arrival.

“Go home, commissioner,” he rumbled quietly. “Eat a decent meal, get some rest. Davies can handle things ‘til morning; it’s his job.”

“Not you too?” Gordon pleaded. When he received no reply save the continuation of that concerned gaze Gordon dropped his hands to his sides, letting out a huff of irritation. “Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m ok?”

“You’ve been working almost non-stop this past year. You’ve pretty much stitched the city back together single handed; but you’re just one man, commissioner. You can’t expect to keep working near on twenty-two hours a day without running yourself into the ground.”

Gordon drew a sharp breath in through his teeth and hurriedly turned his back, closing his eyes briefly to regain his composure. Unknowingly, Blake had hit the nail right on the head. Yes, he was just one man.

_We used to be two._

“Don’t think you’re blameless in this,” he warned jokingly, hoping against hope to lighten the mood and direct attention away from the subject of his health. “Stephens said this morning that I have an ‘I’m-worried-about-Batman’ face.”

“You do,” Batman replied simply, refusing to take the bait. “Stacy diverts all but your urgent calls to Sawyer when she sees you wearing it, and Stephens and Bullock take it in turns to play bouncer at your office door. You’re wearing it now.”

Gordon's shoulders hunched instinctively and he bowed his head, eyes desperately fixed on his shoes as he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“But they’ve got it wrong,” Batman continued relentlessly. “Because it’s not me you’re thinking of when you get that look on your face. It’s how I knew you were thinking about him.”

Behind him Gordon felt Batman take a step closer, his voice dropping in volume and register.

“It’s been a year, commissioner. Why won’t you let him go?”

“I’ve tried,” Gordon murmured, making a valiant effort to keep a quaver from his voice. “God knows how I’ve tried, but I can’t. There’s something won’t let me, some part of me that refuses to believe he’s really gone.”

“He was at the centre of a nuclear explosion,” Batman stated harshly, eyes like flint. “He was towing a four-megaton neutron bomb on a ten foot cable. There is no way he could have survived.”

Gordon swallowed down the lump that was rising in his suddenly too-tight throat, taking a steadying breath before trusting himself to answer.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I'd be an idiot to say otherwise. But damn it all, he was my friend – no, my partner! You can’t expect me to just –”

He stopped as he heard a crunch of gravel on the roof behind him, and Gordon turned just in time to see Batman drop off the parapet, seconds later soaring away on black wings into the night. The commissioner watched until he was out of sight, feeling winded and inexplicably bereft. Blake had walked out on him.

It was an entirely new and unwelcome experience.

And then Gordon noticed that he had been too distracted to remember to turn off the signal after Batman had arrived, having left it blazing away through the entirety of their conversation.

“God damn it!” he hissed through clenched teeth, the words misting the air with his breath. The wind sighed and gusted in response, turning to sting his cheeks with ice crystals. “God damn it all to hell!”

Furious, he shut off the signal, turned on his heel and headed back down the stairwell, slamming the fire escape door behind him with a great _clang_ which echoed angrily across the adjacent rooftops. Five minutes passed, and then slowly a shadowy form uncurled from where it had been concealed behind a heating conduit since before Gordon had arrived. It was a man; about 6’2” in height, wearing a charcoal grey hoodie, black slacks and solid, black boots. Brushing a thin layer of snow from his shoulders he let out a low, heavy sigh, the black silk scarf covering his nose and mouth ensuring that his breath barely left a mark in the frigid air.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” he whispered, the words all but lost to the moaning of the wind. “I’m sorry.”

\-------

If Gordon had thought from Batman’s abrupt departure that Blake was merely adopting a further variety of unsympathetic Bat behaviour, he was sorely mistaken. Blake was in fact livid, and had left at that moment simply because he had not trusted himself to say anything he wouldn’t later regret.

Despite Lucius’ cryptic warning Blake had gone to meet Gordon that evening with every intention of telling him about the hooded intruder at the manor, if only to let him know of a potential security breach, but moment he’d seen the commissioner’s face Blake had finally understood what his employer had meant. So he'd had kept quiet, biting his tongue even as Gordon confessed his inability to move on. Perhaps he was giving into paranoia – hell, considering how Bruce had been before he died it was probably only a matter of time – but Blake wouldn’t risk losing the little faith he had worked so hard to gain from the commissioner in favour of a phantom. For all they had worked well together over the past year and a half, Blake had never had any illusions as to how Gordon felt about him taking up the mantle of the Batman. He had known from the start that Jim wanted nothing more than to have Bruce back in the suit instead of him, even though it was a wish that could never be granted.

In that light it was also very hard for him not to take the absence of coffee as a personal slight.

Well, Blake thought bitterly, he’d show Gordon. He could do this job. Bruce had believed him capable of carrying on the legacy of the Batman, and that was more than good enough for him.

 _Or maybe not_ , a little voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Blake shifted uncomfortably. The thought had been bothering him for some time, nagging away in the rare moments when his brain wasn’t otherwise occupied, and with the reappearance of Matches Malone it had yet again reared its ugly head. In life Bruce’d had access to information on everyone on the planet – quite literally everyone – yet Blake’s searches of the Cave databanks had returned nothing on Malone beyond his GCPD rap sheet and a list of everyone he’d ever shared a cell with. Nor was this the first time certain key pieces of information had been lacking on minor underworld figures, which led Blake to suspect that the absence of said information was not merely an oversight on Bruce’s part (Besides which, it wasn’t the sort of mistake Bruce would’ve made). No, it meant there was something about Malone that Bruce hadn’t wanted to risk anyone else finding out – even going so far as to take the secret to his grave – and it had to be something big because there was not a single reason Blake could think of, good or bad, as to why Bruce would have gone to such lengths to protect a member of the Mob. Gordon’s mistrust Blake could at least understand, but Bruce...

The thought that Bruce hadn’t trusted him was unthinkable; and therefore Batman would not think about it. At least not tonight.

Having decided to follow up the Matches Malone lead, Batman had lost no time in going straight to the Waterfront district from the roof of the MCU. After making a quick reconnaissance of the area, he had alighted on the warehouse building opposite the Stacked Deck and was now perched on a convenient fire escape overlooking the side exit of the bar. The Stacked Deck, once the property of Carmine Falcone and now owned by Louis “Fishbait” Costello, had been the favoured haunt of the lowest of Gotham’s low-life scum for near on three decades. The regulars were all criminals to a man (or woman), and as such it was the hub of all illicit activities in the city. If something was going down, it was guaranteed someone at the Stacked Deck would know about it. Therefore it was no wonder to Batman that Malone would choose to hang out here, for besides being part of his old territory it was the ideal place to keep his finger on the pulse of Gotham’s underworld. Vital, one might say, for a man who was looking to stay one step ahead of the Mob.

Concealed in the shadows Batman settled a little more comfortably on the fire escape, wrapping his cape around him as protection against the snow, and waited – because in this case it would simply be a waiting game, dictated by human biology and a little local knowledge. Once upon a time during a raid John Blake the patrolman had made the mistake of visiting the men’s restroom in the Stacked Deck and had subsequently sworn never to do so again (Even worse, his partner had ‘forgotten’ to warn him and had just stood there howling with laughter when Blake had re-emerged swearing and gasping for breath). The longstanding custom was that this alleyway served as a replacement facility, as even in the depths of winter a dark back alley was infinitely preferable to the uniquely revolting stench indoors. Therefore it was guaranteed that every male patron frequenting the bar that night would walk through this side door at least once to answer a call of nature. Batman didn’t have any qualms about using the information to his advantage.

Amongst all the various Bat paraphernalia, Bruce had bequeathed to his successor several pieces of advice, one of which in particular came to mind as Batman sat in wait for his prey: _Criminals are not complicated, but never make the mistake of thinking they can’t be clever._

By all accounts Malone was clever. Not intelligent like the Joker or Bane – or even the al Ghuls – but sly with a profound ability to talk himself out of tight spots. Batman was therefore determined only to let the gangster talk enough to find out why Johnny Franks had been so afraid and nothing more; anything else beyond that would probably be shit-spinning from the likes of Malone, anyway.

An hour went by in which Batman watched a steady stream of men come and go, most of whom faces he knew from past cases and the Cave databanks. Another half an hour later and the side door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a thin moustache plastered across his upper lip. He was wearing a disgustingly loud plaid suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses and, though he was perched high up, even at this distance Batman could make out the matchstick clenched between his teeth. There, that had to be him. The guy fitted Malone’s general description; and besides which, who else was likely to be walking around here wearing sunglasses at night and chewing on a matchstick?

Oblivious to the fact that he was being watched, Probably-Malone paused in the doorway and half-turned back into the bar, as if someone just inside were talking to him. He let out a dismissive bark of laughter, calling back over his shoulder.

“What, you wanna hold my hand?”

A perfect North Jersey accent – flat and nasal – augmented with a casual leer. Definitely Malone. The gangster slammed the door shut after him, crossed the alley to the dumpster and unzipped his fly. Two storeys above him Batman shifted on his perch, shaking the snow from where it had settled about his shoulders and readied a grapple beneath his cape. Showtime.

He dropped silently and landed in a conveniently dense patch of shadows a few yards away from the dumpster. Judging by the info he had gleaned from those at the MCU who over the years had been privileged enough to witness the Bat ‘at work’, half of Bruce’s success had lain in scaring his target witless before he’d even started asking the questions. With any luck, the same tactic should work just as well now as it had then. As Malone was still facing the dumpster Batman waited patiently for the man to finish, deciding to at least allow him that much dignity. Even he drew the line at interrogating a guy with his dick hanging out.

And then suddenly, without turning round, Malone said calmly:

“’F you’re plannin’ on jumping me, I expect you to buy me dinner afterwards.”

Batman took a hurried glance around the alley, seeking out whoever Malone was talking to and wondering how he had been so careless as not to notice another person had arrived on the scene – but there was no one else in sight.

“Yeah, you lurking in the shadows!” Malone called sarcastically, tucking his shirt back in and fastening his fly. “I am talkin’ to you.”

Wait, Malone was talking to him? Batman cursed silently, but did not move a muscle. How the hell had Malone known he was there? The only person he couldn’t generally sneak up on these days was Gordon, and that was only due to the commissioner having had many years experience at Bat-spotting. Not to mention Malone should have been near-blind wearing those stupid sunglasses in the dark.

“Matches Malone?” Batman growled, covering his inward frustration with outward aggression. He had lost the element of surprise, so the direct approach it would have to be.

“Who wants to know?”

Despite his resolution not to allow himself to be baited, Batman felt a flash of irritation that the cocksure bastard hadn’t even turned round. Was Malone already feeling so secure on his own turf again, or had he simply been away from Gotham so long he’d lost the heightened sense of self-preservation necessary to survive here? Whichever it was, Batman thought darkly, he ought to dispel such illusions fairly swiftly. Quick as lightening he covered the sparse distance between him and Malone, grabbed the man by the scruff of his suit jacket and yanked him back into the shadows. Malone barely had time to let out a startled yelp before he was slammed against the wall, all the breath knocked out of him, and pinned there by two heavy black-gloved hands fisted in his lapels. Batman leaned forward until they were practically nose-to-cowl, baring his teeth in a bestial snarl.

“ _Me._ ”

Contrary to Gordon’s belief, this was not John Blake’s first interrogation as the Batman. Since the end of the Crisis there had been the need, on several occasions, to chase down information which hadn’t been available anywhere else but the street – and not easily obtainable at that. That Gordon had been gently misled as to the method of how the information had been obtained was neither here nor there, and Batman had been working on the old principle of the less Gordon knew, the better. Plus he had a feeling that, on some level, the commissioner wouldn’t exactly approve if he found out. He remembered with a quiet satisfaction the first time he had swooped out of the darkness to question a pimp in connection with some of the still at large escapees from Blackgate; the startled cry and the naked fear in the man’s eyes as he’d stepped towards him out of the night. _Shit, man! I thought you was dead!_ It had taken very little persuasion to get the guy to spill all he knew.

But whatever reaction he’d hoped to elicit from Malone (something along the lines of the gangster turning to terrified putty in his hands) Batman was to be sorely disappointed. In fact, far from being cowed into submission, Malone seemed genuinely put out.

“Oh terrific,” Malone whined, an edge of bitterness to his voice. “As if things ain’t bad enough.”

Batman tightened his grip.

“Believe me, they’re about to get worse.”

“No shit,” Malone mumbled, shifting in an ineffectual attempt to try and get his feet back down on the ground, instead of suspended several inches in the air. “And go easy on the suit! It’s new.”

Beneath the cowl Batman’s frown deepened. Malone was certainly living up to his reputation; arrogant, mouthy and with no end of smart-ass lines. He’d run up against hard cases like Malone nearly every day of his life before the cowl; the bright ones who thought they could sass their way out of a charge, usually the first to cry harassment when you slapped on the cuffs. The only way to deal with them was to keep the words short, direct and to the point, and not let up on them; body language aggressive, but in control. Malone had been gone from Gotham for nearly a decade – long enough to forget what dealing with the Batman was really like – and, therefore, Malone needed to be reminded of his manners. Batman had no use for verbal niceties.

“Alright,” he purred, before letting go and dropping Malone hard on his ass, the gangster letting out a pained cry as his rear connected with the curb. Immediately Batman crowded in close again, not giving Malone time to recover his balance. “I want answers, Malone, and if I don’t get them you’ll have a lot more to worry about than a rumpled suit.”

Now that he and the gangster were ‘up close and personal’, Batman used the moment to make a quick study of the fabled Matches Malone. Height, build and hair colour Batman had noted beforehand; now he logged the extra details which had been invisible at a distance and from his mug shot. Malone’s hair was slicked back and shiny with a little too much gel, his sharp cheekbones framed by short, dark sideburns. Except for the thin moustache he was clean shaved, though not too closely, so his jaw was covered in a rough-looking five o’clock shadow. The aviator glasses hid his eyes, reflecting what little light filtered into the alley from the bar; cheap plastic lenses with no finish and no brand name on the frames, the sort that could be picked up anywhere for a few dollars. His breath smelt of mint and the man reeked of cheap cologne – so much that for a moment Batman speculated whether he might have bathed in the stuff – but beneath it there was a note of something vaguely familiar; a powdery tang at odds with the aggressive manliness of the cologne, something that smelt like... make-up?

“Figures,” Malone muttered, halting Batman's train of thought before it could pursue that line of thinking any further. “When I heard the cops grilled my babe this morning I reckoned you’d be along soon as you crawled outta your coffin.”

“Then you know what I want,” Batman said, letting the comment slide. He wasn’t going to be drawn into trading witticisms. Malone grimaced.

“Yeah, Hinksy and Franks,” he spat. “Same as everybody wants to know. Look, people are getting iced for squealing; what makes you think I’d risk my neck telling you?”

Feeling another stab of irritation Batman let out a low growl, his hands once again grabbing Malone’s lapels, pulling him upwards and shaking him roughly.

“How about you risk _not_ telling me?” Batman hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly pitch.

“Jesus, cool it!” Malone yelped, trying to shrink away from that grasp, but he only succeeded in pushing himself further back against the alley wall. “I only wanted to know if you were still paying!”

Paying? Batman blinked, thrown entirely off balance. Of all the things that could have been said tonight, he had never imagined for a moment that any suggestion of payment might come into it. Was Malone trying to get himself beaten to a pulp? But no, the comment had been defensive and lacked the belligerent tone the gangster had used up until now. If Malone was genuinely surprised by his behaviour, then... then was it possible he had been an informer for Bruce? Batman felt a brief spark of panic blossom in his chest which he fought to stifle, schooling his face back into its harsh lines once more. He couldn’t hesitate now; he had to keep going, keep pressing Malone, keep him off balance.

“That depends on you telling me what I want to know,” he snarled, but he had reacted too late. The damage was already done; Malone had seen his moment of confusion. Now the gangster studied him thoughtfully, or at least what appeared to be thoughtfully to Batman for all he could interpret the man’s expression behind those glasses.

“Y’know,” Malone said quietly. “People have been saying stuff about you. Lot of rumours flying around; like you don’t talk like you’ve got a throat full o’ gravel anymore, like you’re forgettin’ stuff and names you already knew, forgettin’ fellas you’ve put away. I didn’t believe it, thinkin’ it was some game you were playin’ – but here you are, acting like you never set eyes on me.”

“So?” Batman grunted, a slow burn of anger settling behind his eyes. He’d never found any evidence that Bruce had kept any CIs, but Malone’s reaction combined with the suspicious lack of information in the Cave databanks was beginning to add up to a very unpleasant answer. So why the hell hadn’t Bruce thought to mention this? He’d thought of practically everything else!

“So you’re good,” Malone continued. “Good enough to fool most, but I know something they don’t. The first guy’s dead, isn’t he? ‘Course he is; ain’t no escaping an explosion like that, but they’re all too stupid to figure it out. They just think you’re indestructible, like that super-freak in Metropolis or somethin’. The Bat was smart, though. He knew that one day he’d be gone, and with every cop in the city gunnin’ for him he knew it might be sooner rather than later, so he planned to have someone take over.” Malone smiled wolfishly, and Batman felt there was something eerily familiar about that smile which he couldn’t quite place. “Like I said; you’re good, but there’s differences. He was taller than you, for a start.”

 _Stupid, stupid!_ Batman thought, furious with himself. He had allowed Malone to talk too much, and as a result the encounter had gotten out of hand. If he still stood any chance of getting the information he wanted tonight he needed to regain control of the situation, and fast. He slammed Malone back against the wall once more, not even wincing when he heard the back of the gangster’s head connect with the brickwork. _You’re not there to be nice._

“It wouldn’t make any difference if I were,” he snapped.

“Sure,” Malone coughed, winded but still talking nonetheless. “And no way he woulda picked you if he didn’t think you could do the job – but you ain’t him, and you outta stop tryin’ to be him. Everyone knows that the most dangerous guys are the ones that think they got somethin’ to prove.”

With that, Batman saw red. In one swift movement he hefted Malone above his head and threw him into the dumpster, jumping up afterwards and balancing on the edge, looming over Malone like a dark and terrible bird of prey.

“No more games!” he snarled. “Either you start talking about Franks –” He raised the grapple gun, aiming for the edge of the rooftop. “– or we take this to the next level.”

It was then that the night’s events took yet another unsettling turn. Something almost imperceptible shifted in Malone’s face, and Batman was perplexed to find himself being regarded with what could only be described as disappointment.

“Bad idea,” Malone said flatly, despite being sprawled amongst a heap of stinking garbage bags, despite the bruising Batman knew must be forming across his ribs and chest. “My boys are in the bar, waiting for me to come back in. Soon they’re gonna notice I’m missing, and if I turn up looking shit-scared and roughed-up they’re gonna reckon who I’ve been talking to, and what’s the point of a snitch if the Bad News knows he grassed them up? Way things are at the moment that’d buy Matches Malone a one-way ticket to Harp Land – which I ain’t keen on going to anytime soon, in case you were wondering. Textbook mistake, rookie.”

“So what do I care what happens to a piece of garbage like you?” Batman spat, his anger directed at both himself and Malone. _Stupid, stupid fool!_ “There’ll always be another who’ll squeal.”

“’Coz if you don’t protect your sources they dry up,” Malone sneered, not in the least bit intimidated. “’Coz that ain’t the way it’s played. That ain’t the _rules_.”

Batman dropped into the dumpster and stooped down, fists once more grabbing Malone’s jacket, smirking as he heard the fabric tear. He leaned in close, so close to the other man that he once again caught the scent of mint and make-up beneath the overpowering cologne, and poured every drop of dark malice he could muster into his voice and glare.

“Not my rules.”

Silence reined over the alley. A siren wailed in the distance. The wind moaned as it coiled its way through the narrow spaces between the warehouses. Somewhere behind the dumpster a rat toppled over an empty tin can.

Malone leered.

He straightened his tie.

Then the world spun through 180 degrees and the next thing Batman knew he was lying on his back in the slush, his body aching like he’d just been hit by a bus, and with no idea how he’d got there. He looked up, disorientated, gaping at Malone who had somehow gotten out of the dumpster and was standing over him; arms folded, a fresh matchstick clenched between his teeth. With a slight bow of his head the dark glasses slid down the gangster’s nose.

And just like that the Bat persona fell apart, leaving only John Blake, ex-cop, lying flat on his ass in a filthy back alley in a borrowed costume that suddenly felt far too large and far too heavy. Because although the man who stood towering above him was undoubtedly Matches Malone, the eyes which glared out at him, transfixing him, were undeniably the eyes of the Batman.

“You either play it by the rules or no rules at all, Bird-boy.”

Some instinct of self-preservation must have kicked in at that moment – some latent fight or flight impulse – because the next thing Blake was aware of was that he was soaring skywards on the end of a line, Malone’s increasingly distant taunts drowned out by the rush of wind and a ringing in his ears. No. Dear Christ, _no!_

He crashed onto the roof of the warehouse and stumbled, his legs suddenly unable to support him, falling to his hands and knees. He stayed crouched on all fours, gulping down lungfuls of cold air, his heart pounding and his head spinning. Dear God, what had just happened? Had he just seen what he had thought he’d seen? He felt sick, outraged, betrayed – but mostly he just felt overwhelming confusion. How was it possible? _There was no_ way... _Fox had said..._ Yet try as he might, there was no ignoring the truth; the terrible truth that had been right there all along.

Rookie.

Bird-boy.

Robin.

 _Bruce_.


	6. Cruelty and Compassion; and Whether it is Better to be Loved Than Feared, or the Reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go back and rejoin the previous Chapter 6 and 7. I wasn't happy with how the story had ended up split; it reads better this way, I think. Thank you for your patience.

Gordon peered groggily at the alarm clock on his bedside table, squinting in an attempt to make the small, glowing red blur of the display resolve into numbers.  When that failed he fumbled for his glasses, unfolding the arms and shoving them clumsily onto his nose, and tried again.

3:48am.  Nearly four in the morning.

He continued to stare at the clock as his brain sluggishly tried to work out what had woken him – and received his answer almost immediately as he registered an insistent tapping on the bedroom window.

In an instant Gordon was wide awake.  His hand closed instinctively on the gun he kept concealed behind the headboard and he rolled out of bed, dropping into a defensive crouch.  Granted, it was unlikely that an assassin would be polite enough to knock before breaking in and killing him, but this was Gotham and the usual rules didn’t apply.  Careful not to make a sound, he crossed the bedroom floor and stood to one side of the window, gun held at the ready.  He counted to ten slowly, and then in one fluid movement he yanked back the curtain, bringing the gun up to bear on the dark silhouette the other side of the glass.

Outside Batman was perched on the fire escape, fist raised in mid-air about to knock again.  Gordon heaved a loud sigh, relieved and irritated in equal measure, and lowered the gun as the vigilante opened the window and slipped inside, apparently having already picked the lock.  Gone were the days, it would appear, when the Batman would simply break in and wait to be noticed… and once again Gordon wondered at how twisted his life must have become over the past decade to feel regret at the thought he’d no longer be ambushed by a man dressed as a bat.

“So you do house calls now?” he asked tersely, his previous state of alertness giving way to exasperation now he was wide awake, but Batman did not reply as he shut the window behind him.  When he turned to face Gordon his mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes hard as flint.

“He’s alive,” the vigilante bit out, without introduction.  Gordon frowned.

“What?”

“You heard me!” Batman snarled.  “He’s back, in Gotham – and don’t pretend for a minute you’re not glad!”

Gordon’s confusion merely increased.

“What?” he asked again, for a lack of anything better to say.  Blake let out an angry growl, uncannily reminiscent of his predecessor.

“Bruce,” Blake continued in so bitter a tone he almost spat the name.  “He was waiting for me at the Stacked Deck.  Bastard knew I was going to be there!”

Ok, Gordon thought; so now they had really left any sense of reality behind. But Blake was looking at him so angrily – Angry at _him_? – as if he expected him to argue back, or say something at the very least; plus Blake was using his own voice, not even trying for the Bat, which in itself was desperately wrong. So Gordon chose the only course of action he could at present get his head around.

“Blake!” he snapped.  If the kid wasn’t going to try and keep up the pretence, then neither was he. “You’re not making sense.  Back up.  Start from the beginning.”

That got Blake’s full attention.  The ex-cop stopped his pacing, and with a visible effort he gathered himself together, checking his anger; for now, at least.

“Bruce Wayne is alive,” he said. The bitter tone was still there, though it was framed in a much less heated delivery. “I saw him tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Blake said, his voice hollow.  “I couldn’t be more sure if I tried.  I wish I weren’t.”

Once again Gordon felt his guts twist themselves into that now familiar knot of hope and, judging by the fresh scowl on Blake’s face, some of that hope must have made it into his expression.   _Bruce Wayne is alive._   If it were true, then that was certainly welcome news – but this was, equally, not sort of conversation Gordon would prefer to have at four in the morning, still mussed from sleep and Blake barely keeping a lid on his temper.  Experience, however, had taught the commissioner that, when faced with an angry Bat, there was no other option but to persevere.

“Where did you see him?” he asked.

“At the Stacked Deck,” Blake replied.  “I was following up the lead on Malone.  I waited for him over the side door, but things didn’t go to plan.”

“What happened?”

“Malone got the better of me – only turns out ‘Malone’ isn’t Malone at all.  It was Bruce, disguised as Malone.”

“Blake,” Gordon said, privately wondering which part of the story he should start to unravel first.  “Think about what you’re saying.  Only tonight you said it wasn’t possible –”

“He put me on my ass!” Blake hissed, thumping a fist into his palm, for want of a nearby flat surface to take his frustration out on. “He put me on my ass whilst I was wearing the suit!  Who in Gotham would dare try that these days, let alone be able to do it? Answer: Not Matches Malone!”

And so saying Blake angrily ripped off the cowl, an action which in itself sent an unpleasant shiver down Gordon’s spine – and not just due to the violence with which it had been done.  It had been bad enough that he couldn’t get the idea of it being Blake in the suit out of his mind; but to see Blake in the suit without the cowl, face streaked with sweat and the black make-up from his eyes!  It was so many degrees of ‘wrong’ that to Gordon, sleep-deprived and thrown off-kilter by the possibility of Bruce being not only alive but back in Gotham, the image seemed utterly obscene.

“This...I just... Give me a minute.”  Gordon sat on the edge of the bed, putting the gun down on the covers next to him, and took a deep breath.  Everything was moving too fast.  He needed to slow this down; get all the facts, examine them, put them in order and draw what conclusions he may.

“Let me get this straight.  You went to the Staked Deck in search of Malone.  You waited – out of sight, I take it?  Right.” he said hurriedly, as Blake’s expression turned thunderous.  In his head Gordon pictured the old chalkboard at MCU, the one he’d used as Lieutenant Gordon before the Joker’s bomb had prompted a refit and a call for ‘modernisation’.  In his hand he held a piece of chalk, fixing his thoughts on the board in black and white; clear, ordered, methodical.

_Fact No.1 – Blake had been at the Stacked Deck that night._

_Fact No. 2 – He was there as Batman._

Conclusion: It was highly unlikely anyone had seen Blake arrive, and if they had they would have only seen the Batman, not John Blake.

“And when Malone emerged you got up close to interrogate him, but he managed to overpower you, and revealed himself to be Bruce Wayne in disguise.  Have I got that right?”

“It sounds worse when you say it like that,” Blake groused.  “But yeah, you’ve got it.”

_Fact No.3 – A man matching the description of Malone had emerged from the Stacked Deck._

_Fact No.4 – ‘Batman’ had accosted ‘Malone’, ‘Malone’ had bested ‘Batman’ in physical combat._

_Fact No.5 – Something makes Blake believe ‘Malone’ is in fact Bruce Wayne.  A resemblance between Malone and Bruce Wayne has already been noted, though not by Blake._

_Fact No.6 – Blake believes Bruce Wayne to be dead._

Conclusion: Two options.  One, Blake is mistaken and Malone has somehow become an expert in unarmed combat or Two, despite all evidence to the contrary Bruce Wayne is alive.  More information would be needed to narrow these options down to one, so therefore – Question:

“How did you know it was Bruce?”

“When he had me on the ground he dropped his glasses; they were Bruce’s eyes.  And he called me ‘bird boy’.  Malone wouldn’t know my real identity, let alone my real name.  Bruce does.”

_Fact No.7  – It’s true that few know Blake’s legal name._

_Fact No.8  – Even fewer know that Blake is now the Batman._

_Fact No.9  – Blake is not stupid._

Conclusion: Hope.  But still too many holes, not enough information...

“Blake, it’s clear you saw what you saw, but things aren’t adding up.  Malone was definitely in Gotham well before Wayne returned from his years abroad, and had family; a widowed mother and a brother, also part of the Mob.  Matches Malone and Bruce Wayne were definitely two separate people.  Besides, if Bruce were somehow alive and undercover, why would he show us his hand now?”

“I’m not sure if he meant to let me know,” Blake said, an uneasy expression creasing his brow.  “But it wasn’t just tonight.  Three nights ago, I saw him.”

In his mind’s eye the chalk slipped from Gordon’s fingers.  It dropped to the floor and broke in two.

“What?”

“Someone broke into the Wayne family plot the night after Jonny Franks was killed,” Blake continued.  He let out a sigh, wearily rubbing one black-rimmed eye.  “He was dressed in an old grey hoodie and slacks; I couldn’t see his face.  I thought it was some homeless guy looking for a place to sleep – but when I approached him he ran, and when he ran he moved like Bruce.”

There was a beat of silence as Gordon tried to find his voice.  For some reason his throat had become constricted.

“And you were going to tell me about this when?” he asked hoarsely.

“Why should I have? I didn’t get a good look at the guy.  Besides, I went to see Fox and he said he’d check the security himself.”

“Wait, you told Fox?”  Gordon's eyes widened in disbelief.  Blake had gone to Fox, and not him? The vigilante flinched a little, a small indication of guilt, but held his ground.

“I needed to know for certain it was Bruce before I told you," he explained.  "If there was a chance, even the slimmest one, that he had survived the explosion I had to know; but Fox said there was no way it was possible.  So I let it go.”

Gordon continued to sit in silence on the bed.  His gaze was fixed on the carpet, but he could feel Blake watching him warily, unsure whether this was going to blow up in his face or not.  That the kid thought it would was wounding in itself. _How did we get to this?_   Gordon asked himself bleakly.  How had things gotten so bad that Blake had felt unable to trust him with this news, even when it seemed to be false?  They were supposed to be partners in this, damn it!  Bruce would never have… Oh.

And there was his answer.

Oh shit. 

“Should have known sooner,” Blake murmured, bringing the commissioner out of his thoughts.  “He smelt of make-up under the cologne, and he got under my skin; knew just how to get to me.  I should have known it was him.”

“It’s not your fault,” Gordon said, sighing heavily.  No, it wasn't Blake's fault; none of this was. Bruce had blamed himself too many times for things that could never have been his fault, and the commissioner was damned if he was going to let Blake even start down that road. “You weren’t expecting to be facing a dead man; there was no reason it should have even crossed your mind.”

“So,” Blake ventured, after a further awkward silence.  “Where do we go from here?”

 _Where indeed?_   Gordon's first urge was to head straight round to the Stacked Deck and see for himself; but that would be idiotic in the extreme even if ‘Malone’ was still there, which he wouldn’t be.  Anyone would be stupid to hang around after an encounter with the Bat, and neither Bruce nor Malone were stupid.  Whichever one of them it had been, he’d be long gone by now.

“We need to talk to Fox.  In a couple of hours,” Gordon amended, as he glanced at the clock and saw that is was still only 4:12am.  “Right now?  I’m going back to bed, and you… had better go home and change.”

\-------

Despite being issued with a long-standing invitation to drop by for dinner anytime he wanted, Gordon had never been to Fox’s house. He knew the man had family – had met his wife Meredith at one of the few Society functions he’d actually attended, and there was a Lucius Fox Jr. working somewhere in the bowels of Wayne Enterprises. Yet Gordon was wholly unprepared, when he rang the bell of the Fox family home later that morning at just gone seven o’clock, to have the door answered by a slender young woman in a pair of denim shorts and a fashionably-ragged t-shirt.

“Um,” Gordon began eloquently. “We’re here to see Mr Fox Senior. It’s urgent.”

The girl raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows in an eerily familiar expression of patient scepticism, before turning to call over her shoulder:

“Dad, it’s for you!”

Dad?

A moment later Lucius Fox shuffled into the hallway in dressing gown and slippers, clutching the morning edition of the _Gotham Financial Times_.

“Why Jim, Mr Blake,” he said, taking the door off the chain and letting them in. “This is a surprise! What can I do for you?”

“Sorry it’s early, Lucius,” Gordon said, stepping into the hallway, closely followed by Blake. “But this couldn't wait.”

“I guessed as much,” Fox commented wryly, shutting the door. Blake sent a questioning glance down the hall; the young woman had disappeared into the recesses of the house a few minutes ago. Seeing his look, Fox gave an amused smile.

“My daughter, Annabelle. She’s home from college for the holidays. She’s a friend of your Barbara, actually,” he remarked to Gordon over his shoulder, as he led the way to his study. “They were at middle school together.”

The commissioner tried to remember his daughter having been friends with an ‘Annabelle’, and a hazy memory came to mind of his coming home one day to Babs sitting at the kitchen table doing homework with another girl – introduced with a dismissive “This is Annie”, and given an equally disinterested “Hi, Mr Gordon” in response. Even so, he would never have connected the ‘Annie’ from all those years ago with the ‘Annabelle’ who’d answered the door. Damn it, he really must be getting old.

“So what can I do for you?” Lucius repeated, once they reached the study and the door was firmly shut between them and the outside world. “Judging by the hour and the ‘urgency’, I guess this has nothing to do with the new Partnership pathology lab.”

“Bruce is alive.” Blake jumped in before Gordon, cutting out the usual preamble to their meetings. Fox walked round his desk and sat down heavily. 

“Mr Blake,” Fox said wearily. “I thought we’d discussed –”

“So he told me,” Gordon replied, before Blake could say anything else. “And, God help me, that’s the way I’d prefer it to stay. But there’s been a new development since then. Evidence has come to light – the kind that can’t be ignored – that Bruce Wayne is alive and back in Gotham city.”

“Basically,” Blake cut in again, seemingly in need to vent his pent-up ire. “You lied.” Perhaps too abruptly, Gordon reflected, at the expression on Fox’s face; it was clear the kid still had a lot to learn about timing and tact. Well, there was no taking it back now.

“So, Lucius,” Gordon asked mildly, putting his hands in his pockets and gazing at his friend over the top of his glasses. “Did you lie?”

Fox looked at him and all he seemed was tired; too tired to prevaricate, too tired to keep outrunning the truth. Gordon knew the expression well. He saw it in the mirror nearly every morning.

“No, gentlemen, I did not lie.” Fox said, exhaling with a sigh. “For a month, same as everybody else, I believed that Mr Wayne had died in that explosion. Then I was able to get the tech teams to run a diagnostic on the Bat guidance systems. I wanted to know if there was anything I could have done to fix the autopilot, only they found that someone had already fixed it with a software patch six months previously. The user ID belonged to Bruce Wayne.”

Gordon tried very hard to steady his breathing as doubt, and then a creeping suspicion warred in his breast. He didn’t fool Fox, though, and his friend cast him a look verging on pitying.

“Although, I agree, it did present a possibility,” Fox continued cautiously. “Even then it was no proof that he was alive.”

“So what would be proof?” Gordon asked cautiously. Hope. Damn, damn his hope! Lucius reached over and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk – a drawer very well secured and accessed by thumb print – and pulled out a brightly-coloured postcard picturing blue skies and a Mediterranean cityscape. He handed it to Gordon

“Eight months ago, I received this from Alfred Pennyworth.”

Gordon flipped the card over, Blake craning over his shoulder so he could read it too. It was postmarked from Florence, dated the July of the previous year. The few lines on the back were written in the old butler’s unmistakable hand.

 _Enjoying a few weeks by the Arno before heading home. Yesterday at the Terrace there was nice young American couple sitting a few tables away; she seemed content, and he very happy. Did a lot to restore the faith of this old cynic._

“Such a message from Alfred would suggest that Mr Wayne was alive and well,” Fox said simply. “And most likely living a blissful retirement with Ms Kyle. Then, a week after that, there was this.”

From the same drawer he handed the commissioner a printout, which after a moment Gordon recognised as the list of buyers for Bruce and Miranda Tate’s (a.k.a. Talia al Ghul’s) shares in Wayne Enterprises.

“Most of them are private individuals,” Fox continued. “Small companies, charitable trusts and the like, but this one –” He indicated a name two thirds of the way down the page; Newton Isaacs Plc. (International). “– stood out. It was one of the dummy corporations Mr Wayne created to orchestrate his coup of the Wayne Enterprises Board on his first returned to Gotham. After that we put the company into administration and its assets were frozen; the only person who could have used that name is Bruce Wayne.”

“I thought he was bankrupted?” Blake questioned.

“Largely, yes,” Fox agreed. “Mr Wayne did, however, have some not inconsiderable sums tucked away in case of emergencies completely separate from his main funds, set up under an alias. These remained untouched by Bane.”

“How much are we talking about?” Gordon asked, flicking through the pages in a thoughtful manner, though he barely understood a word of what he was reading. It gave is hands something to do whilst his mind tried to sift through all the implications of these events.

“I never knew the exact figure,” Fox confessed. “But we’re talking about a few million. Not enough for him to keep up the style to which he was accustomed, but enough to live comfortably.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” Blake demanded. Fox levelled a stern glare at him.

“No, I did not. It was my opinion that if anybody had earned the right to live out his life in relative peace, it was Bruce Wayne. So you see, Mr Blake,” Lucius said crisply. “I did not lie when I said I did not believe Bruce Wayne would be returning to Gotham; I’m only sorry that there’s now a possibility that I might be wrong.”

“You’re sorry?” Gordon said hoarsely. He became aware that the papers in his hands were trembling slightly, and looked down to see his knuckles had gone white from clutching them so tightly. Fox followed his gaze, and it was some small satisfaction that Gordon noted that now – only now! – he had the decency to look guilty.

“Jim,” he said, his voice softening again to its usual tone. “Mr Wayne was not in the best condition before his disappearance over a year ago; in fact his last medical records indicate that his chosen lifestyle had taken a severe physical toll on his body. Knowing Mr Wayne as I do, I knew that if he were to return to Gotham it would be for one purpose alone.”

“To put on the suit again,” Blake finished grimly. Lucius nodded.

“I fear that may be the case. Many times I heard Alfred say that Mr Wayne’s ‘mission’ was like an addiction to him, and when he couldn’t get out there anymore he just stopped living.”

“But surely Bruce being alive is a good thing?” Gordon pleaded, but fox just shook his head sadly and Blake scowled.

“Not if it means he’s back out there again,” Blake stated bluntly. “You didn’t see what it did to him, commissioner, but I did! If he’s out there again, it’ll kill him.”

“I’ll admit, I’ve done more than most to get him into this,” Fox said. “But at the same time I agree with Mr Blake; I saw what it did to him – and to Alfred. You have to understand, Jim, Bruce was like a son to Alfred. He supported him in his endeavours the best he could, but in the end it nearly destroyed them both.”

“But surely –”

“Could you stand by?” Fox asked sharply. “Night after night, for ten years, watching your child face certain death and knowing full well that you can’t go in their place?”

“I would respect their wishes,” Gordon answered immediately, but Lucius shook his head.

“Not what I’m asking, Jim. Could you? Your Jimmy or Barbara; could you really stand it? I know I couldn’t if it were one of mine.”

Gordon paused. He thought of his Babs, imagined that it had been her strapped into the pilot’s seat of the Bat instead of Bruce. Bab’s eyes behind the cowl, giving him that same hopelessly resigned look, the look that said she’d never see him again. Gordon’s shoulders slumped, all his previous anger evaporating.

“No,” he said quietly.

“Then you know why I didn’t want it to be true,” Lucius said.

“So the only thing to do –” Blake said decisively, breaking the silence that had settled on the room. “– is to find him, and to stop him. Do we have any idea why he’s back?”

“You know more than I on that front,” Fox said, sitting back down in his chair again. “What was the ‘evidence of a kind which can’t be ignored’?”

“He was seen at the Stacked Deck,” Gordon said, thinking to keep it as brief as possible, and not only to spare Blake the inevitable embarrassment. They’d lost too much time already. “Blake was following a lead on the Hinksy case and Bruce was there, disguised as one of the crowd. But it was him alright.”

“Judging on past form –” Blake took over the narrative seamlessly, not failing to recognise the commissioner’s grace in saving his blushes. “– the only reason for that would be that he was there looking for information too.”

“In the past I found that the best course of action was to step back and trust that Mr Wayne knew what he was doing,” Fox mused. “Perhaps it should remain so?”

_Once, maybe. But not now._

“Maybe,” Gordon said aloud. “But, like it or not, somehow he’s gotten himself involved with the investigation, and by my rules that kills any option he had of working alone. I don’t know what he’s planning, and I don’t care, but we need to find him before this goes too far.”

 _Like last time._ The thought hung in the air between them; unspoken, but understood by all three men. Lucius sighed, rubbing a hand across his tired brow.

“If you’re certain that it really is him –” he began.

“It is,” Blake interjected bluntly.

“– then I think I know where you might find him.” Fox cast a glance at the calendar on his desk. “Park Row in Midtown, Thursday night at 10:48. Now, you can make of that what you like, but if Bruce Wayne is alive and in Gotham on that day, then I can guarantee that is where he’ll be.”

 _Park Row._ Gordon felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Of course Bruce would be there. He should have known all along.

“Why?” Blake asked, uncomprehending. “Why would he go there?”

But his confusion only deepened as he looked back and forth between the two elder men, his question met with nothing but a grim silence. 

\-------

Blake had thought it was a stupid idea. Blake had not wanted him to go. Blake had been even unhappier when he discovered he couldn’t dissuade the commissioner from going and, what was worse, that he intended to go alone.

“You know what kind of place that is, right?” Blake had asked that afternoon, for what must have been the eleventh time in the space of two days.

“I do,” Gordon had replied calmly, not lifting his eyes from the paperwork on his desk. Better than you, he’d added privately as Blake had shaken his head in disbelief.

“Then with all respect, sir, how do you figure Gotham’s police commissioner going there alone, at night, can end any way but bad?”

“I don’t,” Gordon had said again, and Blake had given him a look that suggested he might have seriously been considering strangling his former boss; but company was the last thing on earth that Gordon wanted. He’d given Blake reasons; there were still leads to follow up on Franks which weren’t related to Malone, and the city still needed the Batman. There could be no justification for both of them going on what would very likely prove to be a fool’s errand. Blake had bought it, just, but that was fine by Gordon; on this occasion he would take what he could get.

Blake had been right about one thing, though; there were endless reasons why this was a bad idea. Yet, equally, Gordon knew that there was no other way of doing this – for him, anyway – if Bruce really was alive. So much for not giving in to hope!

Park Row. Gordon shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked down the darkened alleyway, his footsteps making the soft, wet crunching sound peculiar to walking through day-old slush. The commissioner refused to call the street by its nickname; to do so would be cheapening the memory of those who died here, and would be to admit that Gotham had once been almost beyond saving. Thomas and Martha Wayne were never helpless victims, and deserved to be remembered for more than their deaths, but their son…

The truth about that night over thirty years ago was that Bruce Wayne had never left this alley. The boy had died here beside his parents and something raw, dark and angry had left in his place. Bruce had been the only real victim that night; the city had taken him and swallowed him whole, and had governed every moment of his life since.

Gordon spared a glance to his left. The street ran directly behind the Monarch Theatre; world-renowned as the spiritual home of the Gotham Opera Company. Like most theatres in the past few decades it had suffered various stages of neglect and faced closure, only to have experienced a renaissance five years ago when the Arts community had rediscovered its love of the ‘vintage’ and ‘bijoux’. Now the neighbourhood was on the up again, and Gordon assumed he would soon be seeing yet more real estate brochures sporting the word ‘gentrification’. Funny how history was so fond of cycles.

And speaking of cycles, here they were again. Gordon’s thoughts became bitter, and he turned his collar up against a sudden gust of icy wind. Whatever Bruce thought he was doing, he had crossed the line; he had stepped into Gordon’s investigation and was getting in the way. Somehow Bruce was involved with Johnny Franks – actively participating in criminal activities, maybe – and Gordon was tired of waiting in the dark. He’d done that once too often, and where had that gotten them? The Batman branded a murderer, and eight years of silence.

“Why would you run?” Gordon asked of the empty night. “Why?”

There was of course no answer, but Gordon had supplied his own. Bruce would not run from him; not now, not ever. They had been partners, even friends of a sort, and Gordon now acknowledged on his own part something more than friends. Surely now, when all was said and done and all secrets known, there would be no reason for Bruce to run. Unless...

Unless. In his mind’s eyes he had seen Bruce whole and undamaged. Was there any getting away from that kind of explosion without some sort of mutilation?

He headed further into the darkness.

It was oddly quiet in the alley, the high walls of the buildings and snow-covered pavements muffling the sounds of the city. If the universe had any sense of the dramatic, Gordon mused, he would have been shadowed and set upon by a gang of muggers, intent on robbing him and putting him in the hospital for good measure. Maybe a cackled greeting from one of the Mob bosses as a finishing touch? He’d count the shapes as first one, then two, maybe three or four burly dark figures would step out of the shadows and surrounded him. Maybe he’d be able to take one or two of them down, but he was older and wouldn’t have been able to do as much damage as he once would have. Yet, as all seemed lost, he’d be saved by a shadowy form sweeping out of the darkness like an avenging angel.

Fortunately reality in Gotham was a lot less like a bad dime novel, and no desperadoes emerged to greet him as he continued on his way down the alley. Gordon felt he probably would’ve died of embarrassment had it been any other way.

So here he was; out in the dark and the freezing slush like a lunatic because his instincts told him his friend was out here, and that there was a chance that tonight the Batman – not Blake, but his Batman, the real Batman – would find him.

Gordon shivered, a cold feeling like a lump of ice forming in his stomach. Doubt was starting to creep into the corners of his mind, along with a profound sense of guilt and shame. What the hell had he been thinking? Any sane person wouldn’t be hanging around in a deserted alleyway, hoping to contact a man who only yesterday he’d believed to be dead. Not only that, but Gordon had given into the one urge he should have known not to allow himself: hope. If there was one thing he knew it was how dangerous hope could be, and in allowing himself to hope he had betrayed Blake and everything that they had worked towards during the Crisis and the past year. And for what? So he could give a dead man the chance not to be dead.

There was only one Batman in Gotham City, and that man was no longer Bruce Wayne. He had to accept that – he must – or else what was the point in him carrying on the fight?

Then Gordon’s foot caught against something in the slush. A soft resistance; not much, but enough to feel the slight weight brush against one side of his shoe. He looked down and there, in the middle of the pavement, were two fresh white roses laid neatly side by side on the ground. The stems were just visible, half-hidden but not yet under the melting snow, which would suggest that the flowers hadn’t been there for long; a few minutes at the most.

All at once he sensed he was no longer alone in the alley, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck in that old, familiar way which told him he was being watched. It was an instinct which had saved his life on many an occasion, yet just as instinctively Gordon knew this watcher didn’t mean him any harm. He stood stock still and tried to steady his breathing, willing his heart to stop trying to hammer its way out of his chest.

“I wasn’t followed,” he said, sounding to his ears a lot calmer than he felt. There was no reply, and so he waited, as he’d always waited. Eventually, after what seemed like years, a deep voice rumbled out of the night from behind him.

“I made sure of it.”

“Figures,” Gordon said dryly, but at the same time he felt a familiar shiver down his spine. Yes, this. This was what had been missing all those years; the quiet anticipation, the simple, easy understanding conveyed in just a few words.

“Your rookie’s not here with you,” the voice commented. Gordon couldn’t tell whether the speaker sounded pleased or disappointed.

“He wasn’t invited,” he replied, willing himself to calm. So familiar. So, so familiar. “I told him not to waste manpower and concentrate on following up the leads along the Waterfront district – thank you for those, by the way. This didn’t need two of us.”

A derisive snort sounded from the shadows.

“So the Batman takes orders from the police?” he taunted. Gordon stayed still, not yet daring to turn around.

“He’s not my Batman,” he said bluntly. “And no, he doesn’t.”

“He’s Gotham’s Batman,” the voice growled, reprovingly.

“For now,” Gordon said flatly. “But he’s not you.”

The muffled sounds of the city were swallowed up further in the resounding silence. Taking a deep breath, Gordon turned slowly on his heel. Opposite where he stood the alley widened slightly to join onto another, creating a few square feet which the streets cast into perfect shadow. Gordon stared at the shadow, and after while he could to make out a darker shape within the darkness. A shadow within a shadow, in the shape of a man.

“People are saying you’re a ghost.”

The shadow shifted almost imperceptibly.

“What do you think?” it asked.

Gordon scuffed his toe in the slush thoughtfully, remembering a time many years before now when he’d been asked that same question.

“I think that a ghost wouldn’t bother trying to conceal its identity,” he said quietly, glancing up from the pavement – and was surprised to find that the shadow was still there, watching him intently. “Ghosts want to be seen, after all. You, on the other hand… You have every reason not to be seen.”

He levelled a clear gaze at the shadow.

“Am I allowed to at least see you?” he asked.

Silence again, and Gordon thought for a dreadful moment that the shadow would disappear as before. But then it took a pace forward into the light, and Bruce Wayne stood before him; solid, real. Alive. Gordon felt weak, as if all the air had been sucked out of him.

“It’s really you.”

“Yes.”

“Malone?”

“Dead.” The reply came emotionlessly. “Accidentally shot four months after I returned to Gotham. No witnesses, and a vague resemblance between us; the situation presented me with an opportunity to create a credible alias.”

“Blake told me the Cave system files had nothing on Malone,” Gordon replied. “Guess that explains it: you didn’t want to risk being compromised.”  
Bruce inclined his head in silent confirmation.

“So,” Gordon said hesitantly. “You’re back. Now what?”

“I’m not staying.”

“That’s it, then? You’re going to finish whatever you came here to do, then run out on us again?”

“I didn’t run out.”

“The hell you did!” Gordon snarled, his temper finally, finally snapping. “For eight years I waited, hoping that one night I would hear your voice in the darkness, or see a shadow move where there shouldn’t be one; eight years!”

“Jim –”

“No!” Gordon snapped, cutting Bruce short. “No, I won’t hear this. I won’t let you talk me into accepting some new hare-brained scheme to get yourself killed; I learnt enough from the last time! We were partners, Bruce – partners! Do you even remember what that means?”

A pained expression flitted across Bruce’s face. He did remember, it seemed; he remembered too well.

“Yes.”

“Then why all the hiding? You know I can help you, just like I did before.”

Another pause in which the pained expression returned to Bruce’s face, but this time it stayed there, his dark eyes raw like an open wound.

“People got hurt before,” he said.

“We all knew what we were fighting for,” Gordon countered. “Harvey, Rachel, Alfred and the rest of us – we all knew the risks better than you did at the start! But we kept fighting. Against our better judgement we put our hopes on you, and we keep on fighting because of you. We’re not your followers, we never have been; we’re your allies.”

“Alliances come to an end.”

Gordon’s hands clenched into fists. No, no he wouldn’t stand for this anymore! In three strides he crossed the distance between him and Bruce, angry driving his feet, and he grabbed Bruce, balling his hands in the black hoodie he was wearing, pulling him in close and growling. It took him two full seconds to realise that Bruce was letting himself be manhandled, standing there and taking Gordon’s wrath, which only served to anger the commissioner more. Bruce saw this and smiled a wry, mocking smile.

“Go ahead,” he said. "Try me."

The easy, sneering smile and the sarcastic sting in Bruce’s voice cut through Gordon like the sharpest of knives. And then he found that he was kissing Bruce, pulling his head down into a violent, needy clash of lips.  
It was inelegant, messy kiss, and lasted for about five seconds. Then Bruce pulled gently back, and Gordon let him, though not going as far as to loosen his grip on Bruce’s hoodie. The younger man looked at him with a startled and curious expression, as if he’d only just realised something that should have been very obvious.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

Then he leaned in again for another try, and Gordon responded with determination.

“I can’t do this without you!” he whispered fiercely against Bruce’s lips, when they next came up for air.

“Yes, you can,” Bruce said, though the crack in his voice betrayed him. “You did before.”

“I can turn up to work,” Gordon growled. “I can do the job, but I can’t believe in it as I did before; I can’t believe in Blake. Not like I believed in you.”

“You’ll have to,” Bruce persisted. “He’s the Batman now.”

Gordon yanked at Bruce’s hair, forcing his head up to meet his gaze, tenderness forgotten in a wave of possessiveness.

“Not my Batman,” he growled angrily. “Not mine!”

Bruce’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, his gaze sharp as flint.

“I can do this without you,” he said firmly. Then he leaned in close, placing his lips against Gordon’s ear, and whispered: “But I don’t _want_ to.”

\-------  
(To Be Continued.)


End file.
